


Samovar

by Hrafnsvaengr



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: ...that was a lie I totally will, And hopefully you like swearing, Because I do a bit of it..., But I'm not too fussed, Canon adjacent I guess, Deaf Clint, Don't follow Clint's example, Don't go home with strangers, Even if they seem friendly, I'll try not to make too many weird obscure references, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Memory Loss, You'd be swearing too in his shoes I imagine, because Clint's story is not actually a happy one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 07:11:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4696955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hrafnsvaengr/pseuds/Hrafnsvaengr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After losing more than a little defending his home, Clint is forced to seek out the answers of his past and his future. Perhaps, if not his fortune, he can find the lost pieces of himself inside an antique Russian tea kettle. With a little silent encouragement, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Въ Началѣ

Fluorescent lights; institutional white walls and gowns; the prickling smell of ether and disinfectant strong enough to burn the hairs inside his nose. He doesn’t remember much, flashes and snippets of memory leaking into his consciousness then leaking back out just as quickly. A quick pinch on the hand and the world faded away starting from the IV and working into the corners of his mind. Cottony quiet black.

***

He woke. Not all at once, but like the slow grinding booting of a computer that should have been shot behind the barn back in the '90s. He could feel the linens of the bed, itchy and overstarched. The window was open, breezes moving the astringently sterile air in the room. Flowers. Not sure what kind, but they were there too. Was he dead? At his own funeral maybe? Front row view at least; best seat in the house.

After what felt like an hour made up of a lot of much shorter hours, he felt his eyes open. He wasn't sure he had opened them himself, but they were open now, so he supposed he must have done it. It was an ugly fucking ceiling. So probably not a funeral, unless that's what coffins looked like from the inside. But shouldn't it be dark then?  Probably. It was probably a waste of money to put lights inside--holy shit... The ugly ceiling was mov--oh maybe not. His coffin was moving, tilting up. So definitely probably not a coffin. Definitely a bed. Maybe.

A woman with a curly shock of red hair was standing to his left. She was mouthing words at him, a remote of some kind in her hand. Stupid thing to do, really. Why not just speak? She kept mouthing silent words at him. How much of an idiot was she? He couldn't... Wait. He couldn't. His voice croaked out of his throat in a very eloquent "Hrrnggrn?" He knew he'd made noise. He felt it in his throat as it crackled dryly and the woman with red hair stopped mouthing words at him, apparently awed by his rhetorical skills. But he couldn't...hear. Not the red haired woman, not the shouting nurse he saw through the open door, not the rattle of cheap blinds in the window. He couldn't hear his own voice in any meaningful way. It wasn't quite silence.... More of a fuzzy haze drowning out the world. Like two shells glued to his head where ears should have been. Even his own speech was little more than a buzzing mush in behind the white noise.

‘What the _fuck_ is going on?’ he yelled, the words coming out in a disarticulated mass of consonants. “Wnntffngn?” The red headed woman held up a finger in a ‘Wait a minute’ gesture and stalked out of the room, looking as though she had some prey to maul. Did he listen to her? He did not. He had always been a bad listener, he was sure of that, but now he apparently couldn’t hear either. There was definitely some sick joke going on. He tried to swing his legs out of bed and had the sickening realisation that though he was sure he had only thought to do it an instant ago, his legs were already over the side of the bed. Before he had become conscious of the thought, he’d taken the action, apparently. Okay, whatever drugs they had put him on were clearly the good shit.

He looked at his feet as they sank towards the floor, his backside sliding along the bed as he tried to stand. He was on the floor. How had that happened? Whatever had happened, he had to get up, had to go find out what the hell was going on. He grabbed a fistful of the bedlinens, using them as leverage to pull himself up, but they just slid off the bed, landing in a sad heap beside him. He tried again, using the frame of the bed. This time he managed to get one foot underneath him before the room began to spin violently. He was on the floor. Again. He was getting very tired of being on the floor.

It was as he was making a third attempt at verticality that a woman in a white labcoat came in, followed by the red haired woman and a tallish man in a hooded sweatshirt. The labcoated woman was pushed aside as the man strode over, reaching out with his right arm to pull him up. It was quickly apparent that either he weighed much less than he thought he did, or this man was freakishly strong. He’d practically lifted him up one-handed back onto the bed. The man stepped back then forward again as he began to fall backwards onto the bed. The man’s left hand was still tucked discreetly in his pocket and now his right was propping him up. He tried again to articulate his displeasure at the current situation. ‘Okay, seriously, what the fuck is going on?’ “Krslffngn?” he asked them, tongue thick and dry in his mouth.

The woman in the labcoat held up a hand soothingly. He wasn’t soothed. Then she, apparently not content to mouth words at him, wrote quickly on a pad of paper. She showed him her message after a moment and he frowned at it. It was either in Russian or Doctorese, and he knew his Russian wasn’t that bad. Doctorese it was. He looked at her and made a vague shrugging motion which set the room spinning again like an overeager carousel. The woman with the red hair took the pad and pen from the doctor and wrote herself. This time, it was definitely English.

“Clint. You’re in the hospital. Do you understand?”

Clint. Yes. That sounded right. His name was definitely Clint. Unless it was something else, but no, probably Clint. Right. Next sentence. Hospital. Again, that sounded right. The big giveaway was the logo on the doctor’s labcoat reading ‘Central Hospital’. Did he understand? Not a fucking chance. He explained his predicament to them. “Huh?”

The red haired woman wrote again and handed him the note. He could see the doctor mouthing words again and the red haired woman replying, but he was quickly distracted when the paper was passed back over now with more writing.

“You were hurt. We think you may be deafened. Can you understand? Nod if you can.”

He read the message. Read it again. Third time, as it happened, was not the charm, and he read it again and again, his eyes hitching on the word ‘deafened’ over and over. ‘Why can’t I hear anything?’ he asked, his tongue making a more concerted effort now to act. “Why-n’t hear n-thing?” He reached up as he spoke, groping at the thick bandages wrapped around his head. He clawed at them, stopped by the man holding him up grabbing a hand in his own and pushing it away. He saw both the red haired woman and the doctor chastise him but he ignored it, still groping at the bandages with his other hand.

It too was pushed away by the strong man and the red haired woman wrote again.

“You were attacked. Do you remember anything?”

Did he remember anything? Maybe he would have if his head hadn’t been filled with white noise and cotton batting. He shook his head, the carousel starting up again with abandon. A thought--memory?--popped into his head suddenly. A dog licking his face and whining. He described the event to the three onlookers. “Dog...face.”

He didn’t need to hear to understand the doctor’s reaction. “What?”

“Dog...licking." He explained, the thick layers of cotton seemed to slowly be lifting off his brain, but the white noise was as stubborn as ever.

A brief look of confusion passed over his audience’s faces before the red haired woman apparently understood. She conversed with the other two, the man’s arm still holding him up unwaveringly. After a longer discussion with the doctor, the red haired woman wrote again.

“You’re to be released today. You’ll stay with me for a while. How does that sound?”

He frowned at the note. He knew the woman was familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. It was like all the boxes that stored his memories had been dumped in a heap in his brain and half-incinerated, leaving him to put back together ashen shards of half-remembered thoughts. It was that or stay here, he supposed. Unless they were planning on letting him go home. Now he just needed to figure out where that was and he was set.

“Sounds like....nothing.” he replied slurrily. Whatever drugs they’d put him on better be temporary. He had had quite enough of being unable to speak without slurring or drooling on himself for one lifetime. “I’ll go,” he continued when no one seemed at all amused by his witticism.

***

The ride on a wheelchair to the car in the hospital parkinglot had been equal parts frustrating and boring. He could walk now. He was sure of that. Sure, he had fallen twice trying to get his clothes on, but at least one of those was because his pants still held a vendetta against him from last week when he had spilt coffee on them--an event he still wasn't sure how he knew had occurred, though he was sure it had. Clearly, he was just fine, thank you very much. But the strong man and the red haired woman had insisted. They had written down their names for him on the pad of paper, but they kept slipping from his head whenever he wasn’t paying attention.

Sitting in the back of the nondescript car, he checked the pad again, looking for their names in the dim light which seeped in tinted windows from the streetlamps outside. Where was it…. Dr Ewan...no, that was the labcoat woman…. Dr Harding...no that was the name of an audiologist…. Nat Romanova and James Barnes. Those were them.

He leant his head back on the seat, tipping it so he could see out the window beside him. Cars, streets, people, lights; all of it was quiet. Maybe not quiet. He could hear the same sort of buzzing as his own voice had become when someone honked or a firetruck blared its sirens, as if the sounds were trying to burrow their way through a heavy blanket of snow. He sighed, and saw the woman in the rearview mirror...Nat, that was her name. That didn’t sound quite right. Was it short for something? Natalie? No, not Natalie. He played back what few things he remembered and knew in his mind, trying to push at the edges, to remember extra pieces.

A dog, licking his face and whining. Waking up in the hospital. Clint. ‘Deafened’. The pinch of an IV being inserted. The labcoated woman whatever her name was fussing as he--Dr Ewan, that was her name--pulled out his own IV. The looks the redhaired woman and the strong man--James...no, that wasn’t right either. Fuck what were their names?!--gave him as they realised that he wasn’t remembering them any more after the sedatives had mostly worn off. Fractured scraps of his memory scattered in the wreckage of his brain.

***

He woke up later as the man--Jim? Jimmy? No, still not right--opened the door of the car, working an arm under his own. He was carefully pulled out of the vehicle, still half asleep as he leant heavily on the arm supporting him. “Where’re we?” he asked quietly. He frowned when he didn’t get an answer, looking sleepily up. “Where--” he cut himself off, the redheaded woman--shit what was her name again?--stood in front of him scrutinising him carefully.

She tapped her ear, then pointed at him. Oh. That’s why he wasn’t getting an answer. She pulled out the pad and pen and wrote on it. “You’re staying with me. This is my apartment. You’ll have to walk up two storeys.” She handed the pad to him and left him and the strong man by the car.

He looked around slowly, the room spinning around him as he did, struck by vertigo at the motion. They were in a carpark. Still in the city, he could feel the rumble of traffic through his feet and see the lights of buildings in the slit between this floor and the next, but not a fancy neighbourhood, judging by the shitty cars and the pavement that looked like someone had eaten chunks of it the potholes were so large.

He was helped by the man up the stairs, each one sending the carousel of his brain spinning again like a giddy child. Whoever invented stairs needed to be shot. Fucker. When they reached the landing halfway between the first and second floors up, he stopped, pulling away from the man to lean against the railing. Whatever had happened to him, he was clearly not at the peak of health. He was tired, his muscles ached, and his lungs were fighting against themselves clamouring for air.

As he rested there on the landing, he slowly turned to look at the man whom he’d been leaning on all this time. He wasn’t terribly tall, though certainly not taller than he was; apparently he was a giant named Clint--no, that was definitely right. He was sure of his own name now at least. Clint. Yes--and he was strong if looks were anything to go by. His dark hair hung about his face limply and stubble lined his jaw. As he watched, the man scratched his cheek with his left hand, a black leather glove covering it. He said something, raising an eyebrow. Clint frowned, trying to watch his lips as he spoke. “--u ready -- now?” It was now or never, he supposed, nodding.

When they reached the correct floor, the red headed woman--his brain, no matter how much he tried to convince it, still refused to think of her as Nat--opened the peeling door to apartment 2014J.

Inside was painted in a certain shade of beige which could only be described as either institutional or nauseatingly bland. Perhaps both. There were no personal effects in the apartment, though there were decorations of a sort. A framed picture of Red Square, another of the riverfront in Vladivostok, another of the Hermitage. A lacquer box on the coffeetable sat, slightly dusty with no signs of ever having been used. To the left was a small kitchen, what looked to be a large brass vase on the counter, a teapot sitting on top in similar slightly-tarnished brass. All in all, it was the most simultaneously Russian and bland apartment Clint could imagine--not that he remembered any other apartments with any specificity. It looked as if someone had worked to make the apartment appear lived in without having to go to the effort of living in it.

He felt a tap on his shoulder and the woman was looking at him, a pen in her hand, her other held out for something. He handed her the pad, still looking around the apartment. A few moments later she tapped his shoulder again and the pad was thrust back into it. “James will help you to bed. I will sleep on the sofa. If you need anything in the night, let me know. I’ll go shopping tomorrow for food, all I have now is frozen borsch.”

He frowned, looking up at her, “No, I’ll sleep on the couch. It’s your place, not mine. I’m not going to kick you out of bed when I can’t remember for sure who you are.”

She frowned back at him, the slightest tightening at the corners of her mouth and a tension in her shapely eyebrows. She took back the pad and wrote more, but was cut off when he pushed the pad away dismissively. “No. I’m sleeping on the couch. If you want the couch, I’ll sleep on the floor.”

He looked up at the man he was leaning on, jerking his head--oh look! the room was spinning again!--toward the couch. After looking at the woman for a moment, he obliged, walking them over to the plastic-wrapped couch and setting Clint down slowly on the hideously-floral cushions.

The woman came over, passing him the pad before she looked up to the man, discussing something with him. Clint looked at the pad, blinking at it for a moment, “The TV doesn’t work. If you need, just yell. If you need help to the bathroom, say so now before James leaves.” He thought for a moment, then shrugged. He could wait, he thought. And if not, he’d just make it over himself. He was sure to be able to walk to the bathroom without help, even if he couldn’t quite manage stairs yet.

Once their conversation had, apparently, run its course, the man put a hand lightly on Clint’s shoulder, getting his attention. He mouthed slowly and managed to get his meaning across well enough. “I’ll be by tomorrow.” Clint nodded, then watched the man leave, closing the door as silently as he had spoken a moment ago. ‘Deafened’. Fuck everything.

The red headed woman looked at him for a long time, then mouthed something at him “G--ight.” ****

He nodded slowly--yaay! spinning!--“Good night,” he replied, watching her leave down a short hallway.

After she’d gone, he settled down into the couch as best he could, keeping his head as still as possible.

Directly across from him, hung on the wall and ever so slightly askew was a framed picture of an old balding man with a beard painted onto a background of gold. In his hands he held a book which contained the lines ' _Въ началѣ бѣ слово и слово бѣ къ Богу и Бог бѣ слово._ ' Clint stared at the man in the portrait. He wondered if this Nat-whomever-she-was even knew that the picture was there. Or what it said. Probably something religious and churchy though. He should ask in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this first chapter of "Samovar"! It's been a bit of a to-do getting it out and I'm not sure whether to despair or be overjoyed when I think of how much I have planned for this. Hopefully it's not too painful of a read. It's my first time writing fanfiction, and I'm afraid it probably shows. If so, my apologies; I'm still trying to get my head around this whole thing. Anyway, thanks for reading! I look forward to being able to bring you the next chapters before too long here.


	2. Заварка и Кипяток

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to slightlylions for being my eternal beta-reader and muse. You're awesome, even if you do end up getting me starting writing four different stories at once. Same goes to apostaterevolutionary who introduced me to fanfic in the first place, and without whom I'd be a much sadder lonelier guy. You two are awesome and never forget it.

Clint woke several hours later to the sight of the red haired woman closing the door behind her, the lock turning just as silently as everything else was. He lay there for a long while, staring wherever his eyes landed, not seeing much of anything. He was thinking. And he wasn’t quite sure it was a good idea to be doing so.

His mind flitted, still half-asleep, over his scattered memories, the fragments of information he had. The red hair woman called herself Nat. The strong man was Jack...Jimmy...James. James, that was it--no, no it wasn’t it. He wasn’t James any more than Clint was Francis. Wait. No. He was Francis. He frowned. His middle name.

In his mind, he turned over this new clue in his mind, looking for a crack, a chink in it he could prise open and dig for more memories, more information about whom he was and what the fuck was going on.... Nothing. No hints, no sudden insight. Just...Francis.

He finally decided to turn away from the weird portrait of the golden baldy and saw a small note on the coffeetable. He reached out with a slow hand--why does the room insist on spinning without the decency of his being hammered first? completely uncalled for--and took the note off the table, unfolding it.

"Clint. I have to go for a while, I don't know how long. James will be here shortly. Nat (03:27h)."

And now he was alone. Not just alone in the apartment, but alone in his own head. He had a feeling that was not the best place for him to be at the best of times, though he wasn't precisely sure why. He was alone in the world, as far as his senses would tell him.

Clint Francis.... Who was he? He looked down at himself. He was dressed in illfitting sweats and a grey tshirt, both bought from the hospital gift store. He examined his hands, not quite knowing them. They were strong. Scarred in numerous places with the silvery lines of cuts and red patches of long-healed burns. His fingers were calloused, the nails short but they appeared to have been chewed off rather than clipped. They felt right. They were his hands, though why that should be so he wasn't sure. He didn't remember getting any of the scars, didn't remember chewing his nails, didn't remember why he had callouses. But still, they were his.

He put an arm over his face, groaning exasperatedly into the crook of his elbow. With his eyes closed, he heard the fuzz filling his ears so much more. It may have been calming were it on a relaxation tape, perhaps with birds or wolves in the background. But in the city? Surrounded by traffic and sirens and the general cacophony of human existence? It put him on edge. He knew he could be snuck up on without his knowing. He couldn’t even feel the vibrations through the floor, sitting on this damned couch. The thing was hideous, overstuffed, and covered in so much clear plastic to render it adequate to dampen an earthquake.

He sighed. Rich people paid a lot of money to be put in isolation tanks filled with sound-proofing and neutral buoyancy salt water. They wanted to disconnect from the world, to feel at peace in their own heads. All he wanted was to reconnect.

***

He didn’t remember falling asleep. Then again, he didn’t remember much of anything, did he? Just one more thing to add to the list. The worst thing about waking up, he decided, his arm still draped over his face, was that when you were awake, you knew exactly how shit your life was at that very moment. Sleeping Clint didn’t have to worry about not remembering where he lived. Didn’t have to worry about whom he was, what he was supposed to be doing, whether or not he had anywhere to go after...after what? There wasn’t an after anymore. Add that to the list too. Not the memory list, the list of how shit his life was. Now that he thought about it, he wasn’t sure which list was more depressing.

He groaned into his arm, flopping it heavily down onto his chest. It had fallen asleep, and he couldn’t really do anything more useful with it right now than flop it around. Not that there was much useful to be done with it. Maybe he--he frowned, not bothering to open his eyes. It felt like someone was watching him. He had felt it before too in the hospital and in the car. Someone was watching him, he was sure of it. He couldn’t hear anyone, and his eyes were closed, so he knew that it was just paranoia setting in. That’d make for a fun time. Deafened, memoryless, and paranoid. Perfect.

The golden baldy greeted him when he opened his eyes, still reading his damned book and looking all saintly. Bet _that_ fucker never had to deal with plastic-wrapped floral sofas. He groaned again, probably louder than before. He couldn’t quite tell how loud he was being, but there was no one around anyway, so it hardly mattered. On a small table beneath St Bookworm of Baldyness was a clock, helpfully flashing 00:00 at him in red. He raised his hand, now tingling and burning as the arm woke up, and gave the clock the finger. Childish? Probably. Useless? Definitely. Were either of those facts going to stop him? No.

With that done, he took his time to slowly turn his head, looking around the room. To one side was the back of the sofa, even uglier from this angle. In front of him, St Chromedome the Holy and the useless clock. To his other side--shit. How long had he been there?

Squatting on the ground across the lowslung coffeetable from where Clint was, was James. Laid out on the table was a game of backgammon, the black and white chequers arranged neatly on the points of the board. The dice were dropped from James’ hand, landing silently on the scratched and water-ringed wood surface of the table. A four and a two. The man studied the board for a moment then moved two of the small white discs. He rolled again, taking his time about moving black’s pieces. He was playing against himself.

“You shouldn’t sneak up on a guy like that,” Clint glared at him.

James shrugged, not looking up from the board as he rolled again.

“So she left you to watch over me?” He tried again.

Another shrug, this one punctuated by a piece being taken off the board. Before continuing his game, the man picks up his phone from the table, tapping at it for a moment then putting it back down.

Clint stayed silent for a long time, just watching the man play. He would stop every now and then, tap at his phone, then go back to his game, never once acknowledging Clint. Despite the fact that he was a total stranger, and the fact that he was sitting in a posture that could only be described as vulturelike, it was nice having him there. There was another person in his world. A very quiet person. One who was, as far as he could tell, completely oblivious to his existence. But it was a person. The population of the world as far as Clint was aware of it had doubled, and that had to be worth something.

After a long while, he realised that he’d simply been staring off into space, no longer seeing the board, the pieces, or the silent clatter of dice. James had been quietly looking at him, the pad placed on the bar dividing the two halves of the game. “Tea?”

Now that he thought about it, he was thirsty. But tea…. No, tea wasn’t right. Or, well, it wasn’t what he drank--used to drink. Before…. Oh shit. Now he was one of those people. Now he had a before to measure his life by. He shook his head, brushing away the thoughts that seemed to be pressing close around the dark edges of the bright spot of memory he’d managed to find. “No. Coffee? Yeah. Coffee. Can we have coffee instead?”

Without a word, the man stood, striding purposefully across the room and out of Clint’s line of sight. Slowly, achingly slowly, Clint slid himself up, gritting his teeth at the feel of the plastic underneath him squeaking as he moves against it. When he’d gotten himself seated, leaning heavily on the arm of the sofa, Clint could see the man searching--no, not searching...stalking. Yes, he was stalking, definitely--in cupboards, apparently looking for coffee. He was wearing a heavy leather coat, the front undone to reveal a white tshirt underneath. His jeans were well fitted, though there’s the lightening patches of wear on the back right where his wallet sat. As Clint watched, the man methodically checked every cupboard, then the fridge, finally sighing heavily and flicking the grimy appliance closed.

Without looking at Clint, the man walked back, resuming his position on the opposite side of the table. He wrote in the pad for a moment before replacing it on the board. Before Clint had a chance to find out what sage wisdom this strange silent man had left for him, he stood, walking once more around the sofa, taking only a moment to slip on his shoes before leaving.

“No coffee. Need jam.”

Now what the fuck was that supposed to mean? He understood the no coffee part, that bit was obvious. Need jam? Who put jam in coffee? And if he was putting it in the coffee, why did they need it if there wasn’t even any coffee? It didn’t make sense, and things that didn’t make sense could go away and stay there. He had few enough things in his world that made sense, let alone adding more on top that didn’t.

Clint groaned again, tossing the pad back onto the table. He watched it clatter against something, then fall on the floor. The man had left his phone. It wasn’t a nice phone, but it seemed functional. Much like the man--John...no...fuck it. He was James now, even if that wasn’t right--himself.

Ordinarily, he might have thought about privacy and good manners, leaving the phone in peace and waiting patiently for the man to return. He didn’t think he’d put much stock in it, even if it weren’t whatever this stupid situation was. So Clint picked up the phone, poking at it until it came to life. It was asleep, but unlocked. Even better. He wasn’t sure what he would have done if it had been locked, now that he thought about it. Probably just chucked it back on the table. But now that it was unlocked….

Next to the icon for Messages was a small red “2” just begging to be opened. Who was he to say no when it had asked so nicely. When the app loaded, he found himself facing a wall of traded messages.

J: что ты хочешь чтобы я сделал с Клинтом?  
N: говорить  
J: как?  
N: твой ртом  
J: хаха  
J: что ты хочешь чтобы я сделал?  
N: разговаривай! сделай чай! это нетрудно  
J: как? он глух  
N: это не трудно  
N: чай только заварка и кипяток

This...was not English. This was definitely not English. Clint could understand a word or two but the main topic of the conversation was clear. His name was right there. “What you something something I something something with Clint.” That wasn’t ominous at all. Nope. Definitely--

Movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, the lock on the door turning. He tossed the phone down on the table as though it had bit him, thankful that it seemed to land in the same place. Oh well, if it wasn’t the same, he could always blame the pad he’d thrown down there, right? Yeah. That’d make sense. He sank back into the sofa, content to watch the man drop a bag of groceries on the counter.

Without unloading the bag, the man walked over and squatted down at the coffeetable. He looked at Clint, an eyebrow raised, then looked down at the phone. Which was unlocked and very much still awake. _Fuck_. The man tapped at the phone for a moment, then set it down again.

Clint braced for the yelling, for an angry outburst, but none came. Instead the man had simply picked up the pad of paper and was writing in it. The phone on the table flashed and he looked at it for a moment before finishing his message. He wrote for quite a while before turning it back around so Clint could read it, the phone on next to it. As Clint read, he went off to the kitchen again.

Two new messages had appeared on the phone.

J: я ненавижу тебя  
N: я тоже тебя люблю. целую тебя!

He turned his attention back to the pad which now contained a small note then an apparent translation of the texts.

“Sorry. We were texting about you. Nat says hi. Tea shortly.

J: What do you want me to do with Clint?  
N: Talk  
J: How?  
N: Your mouth  
J: Haha  
J: What do you want me to do?  
N: Talk! Make tea! It’s easy  
J: How? He’s deaf  
N: It’s not hard  
N: Tea is just leaves and boiled water  
J: I hate you  
N: I love you too. Kisses!”

The word “leaves” seemed to be a correction, sitting next to a scribble which half obscured the word “zavarka”.

Well, that explained the tea question. The more he thought about it, the more this all seemed very strange to him. He knew he wasn’t Russian himself. He wasn’t sure quite how, but he knew. The fact that he couldn’t understand Russian was probably a good clue though. So why was he here being taken care of by two Russians who seemed to know him even though he had no memory of them? And why, for that matter, did he need taking care of in the first place? He had no memory of this supposed attack, no memory of his would be attacker. Apart from the memory of the dog, the only thing he remembered was the hospital.

As he was mulling over his thoughts, the small teapot which had sat on top of the vase was suddenly being placed by James’ gloved hand on the coffeetable, the pad and phone being shoved aside. The other hand put down two teacups, the gilding on the handles faded and missing in more places than it still shone from.

As the man walked back to the kitchen, Clint shrugged slightly, then sat up on the sofa properly. He had to hold onto the edge of it while the room stopped spinning, but the vertigo didn’t seem quite so bad as before? Maybe? It didn’t matter, it still sucked.

The brew that came out of the small teapot was nearly black, looking more like coffee than tea, and he could smell it before the cup was even full. It seemed right that this man, that James, would like his tea strong. He wasn’t sure why.

The large brass vase was placed on the coffeetable now, along with a small dish filled with a rich purple jam, a spoon sticking out of it at an angle. Next, the man sat down on the floor, apparently content now to sit like a human rather than a bird of prey.

Clint took a sip of the tea and nearly spat it out. “This is awful! You make horrible tea!” he exclaimed, wiping off his tongue dramatically on his shirt sleeve. “It tastes like paint thinner!”

The man’s lip twitched at the corner, the slightest hint of a smile. He pointed to the small teapot, then at Clint.

“Yes, that tea, smartass. It’s disgusting!” He tries to take another sip. Nope, still just as face-meltingly bitter. “Oh my god, James, why is this tea so bad?”

The smile on the man’s face twitched again and he pointed to the vase...thing, then again at Clint.

“No, idiot, the tea in the teapot. How can someone fuck up tea? It’s just leaves and water!”

At this, the man smiled and shook his head slightly, pouring his own cup a third full of the tea. He then took a lump of the jam and stirred it into the tea, and finally finished off by turning the large vase and--not a vase. Vases don’t have taps on them. He filled his cup the rest of the way with steaming hot water, closing the tap tightly when he was done. The spoon made no noise as he stirred the mixture and his lips made no sound as the man took a sip. He sighed, content.

After a moment, the man looked at Clint and slowly, carefully began to spell out words. “ _YOU_ ” pause, “ _WANT_ ” pause,  “ _JAM_ ” He was spelling the words with his right hand, the letters coming from the positions of his fingers as he did.

Automatically, Clint’s hand curled into a fist which nods quickly at the man. “ _yes._ ”

***

They’re in a barn, Barney is grabbing his head and shouting at him, the words coming in buzzing incoherence. He’s holding their faces only inches apart and Clint can read his lips as they form the words.

“--HIT WITH. AND HIT THEM UNTIL THEY STOP.”

He finally lets Clint sit up. Their breathing is heavy, they’ve been fighting. Again. His father wasn’t the only one to hit him, but that’s how the brothers had communicated long before he’d been deafened: their hands.

“ _dad’s too tall. i can’t stop him,_ ” he replies.

Barney, sitting on the floor, straw in his hair, cuts away his arguments simply. “Then we OUTLAST him. UNDERSTAND?”

***

The man was looking at him, his brows furrowed into a worried line. He was saying something, but Clint couldn’t hear him.

His breath was coming in easier now as the smell of the hay and the wood board sides of the barn faded back into memories. “No, no, I’m fine. I just…. My brother. I remembered him and…. I was deaf before, wasn’t I?”

The man’s fist bobbed up and down, “ _yes._ ”

“ _you sign?_ ” Clint’s hands moved haltingly, the motions coming automatically, but slowly, over the expanse of faded memory and expired time between him and that day in the barn.

The man shook his head, “ _no. I LEARN 2 SPELL_ ” he spelt out his words labouriously, fumbling on many of the letters before getting the position settled into his fingers.

Clint smiled and motioned to the pad of paper, “You should probably stick with that then.”

The answer is immediate and emphatic, “ _no. I LEARN_ ”

It took Clint a moment to realise, the man--James was serious. He wasn’t just humouring him, he wanted to help. Something, a memory perhaps, flickered at the corner of his mind, but it didn’t find anything to latch onto.

“Okay, okay. You’ll learn. For now, you have to explain the message the red--Nat sent you. About tea?”

James nodded, slowly spelling, “ _OLD RUS SAYING_ ”

“Really?”

The corner of James’ lips twitched up again and he replied, “ _no._ ”

“You little shit!” Clint grinned, snatching the spoon and dropping a gooey blob of the jam into his truly awful tea.

James shrugs, then spelt, “ _MEMORY?_ ” his head tilted slightly, his face asking the question for him.

“Oh.” Clint frowned, “I’ll see if I can remember it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of quick notes here.... Thank you all so much for reading this! I'm blown away by how many of you are reading it, kudosing (is that a real word? Is now.) it, all that. I honestly expected to get maybe a half-dozen views, so this? This is insane. You're all awesome.
> 
> Second, I don't speak Russian, nor do I pretend to speak it very well, so if any of that's wrong, please for the love of all that is holy tell me. I'd much rather have a billion of you correcting it than be oblivious to making really dumb mistakes. I don't think it's too wrong, but what do I know?
> 
> Lastly, I'm adopting a particular style for keeping spoken word and signed distinct. Spoken word will be in ordinary quotation format. Signed dialogue will be in italics. Anything which is fingerspelled will be in all caps, anything which is signed will be lowercase. I'm not keeping the original ASL sentence structure in the signed passages for the simple reason that it's difficult to understand as a reader unless you're well-versed in sign and much more difficult as a writer as I'm no more fluent in ASL than I am in Russian.
> 
> So with those two caveats and a huge thanks, I really want to reiterate how much I appreciate you guys reading this little story of mine.


	3. Строить или Топить

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: There are some pointed and indirect mentions of child abuse, but no direct descriptions of the abuse itself in any detail. There are scenes which take place in an abusive household as well, but again, no direct description of the abuse. If this is going to be troubling to you, please don't read. I don't want anyone to have problems after reading my stuff.
> 
> \---
> 
> With that out of the way, I just want to thank my favourite β reader again, slightlylions. I also want to thank apostaterevolutionary for putting up with me shoving my writing at her when she's got better/smuttier things to read. Love both you nerds.
> 
> And thanks to you, dear readers! Without you lot reading this, I wouldn't be nearly as excited to post these every few days. I'm trying to keep up with my every-other-day schedule, but we all know how life goes, so. You know how it is.

The tea was still pungent, but the soft flesh and the sugar of the fruit took the bitter edge off, leaving it with the heavy warm flavour of ripe blackberries. He took another long drink of the tea, savouring the taste, washing it hot and sweet over his tongue. There used to be a bramble patch behind the barn in the copse of trees there. He’d hid in it sometimes when he needed to get away.

***

“You know he’s just gonna hit you twice as much if you tear your clothes.” Barney was sitting on a stump a few yards away, eating a small handful of the purple fruit, dissecting the berries and eating the individual drops of summer one by one. “Last time Ma patched your shirt while he was asleep, but she’s off with Cousin Louise and won’t be back until t’morrow.”

Clint nodded. He was surrounded by the prickles and thorns of the brambles, a green impenetrable moat of vegetation. He used to climb the trees and hide there until Pa decided he’d teach him a lesson. The branches had shook like an earthquake as the axe bit into the tree. “I know. I’ll be careful.”

Barney popped one of the juicy berries into his mouth, chewing it with a satisfying squelch. “No you won’t. That’s your problem, Clint.”

He was right, not that it helped. “Then I’ll wait ‘til t’morrow to come out. He won’t come lookin’ for me here.”

The black morsel arced into the air and landed in Barney’s upturned mouth. “Maybe. Maybe not. I wouldn’t wanna be you if--”

Their father’s gruff shout echoed from the house. “If you two boys aren’t inside and ready for supper in two minutes, I’m getting my belt.” It wasn’t said as a promise, it wasn’t a threat; it was simply the way of things. You went against Barton Sr., and he got his belt. Sometimes he’d forgo the belt, but that was only for ‘special occasions’. “And don’t think I forgot about you forgetting to milk the cows this morning, Clinton.”

Clint had torn his shirt at the sleeve and scratched his arms and legs pulling himself out of the brambles, just like Barney had said. It’d hurt, sure, but it wasn’t so bad. Scratches healed, shirts were mended, no harm done.

It’s that night that his father had boxed him about the ears hard enough to knock Clint out cold. When he’d awakened, the birds no longer sang in his brier patch in the thicket behind the barn.

***

His mouth was dry and his breath came in shallow gulps. There wasn’t enough air in the room. With a shaking hand he pulled at his collar, the fabric stretching, nearly tearing--

***

”You think clothes grow on trees you little shit? I’ll take the next shirt you rip out of your damned hide!”

***

\--under his grip. He was staring at his little cup, a pair of blackberry seeds floating at the edge. His father. He’d beat him. Beat them both. He felt the bitter burn of acrid bile rising in his throat. His head was beginning to pound. Not enough air. Shit. Where had it all gone? He looked up, eyes darting with a nervous energy, they landed on the man across from him.

Blue eyes, watching him carefully. A strong hand carefully setting down a teacup. His mother had had blue eyes. Not the dark stormy grey of his father’s, but a light cornflower blue. As he looked into the eyes of the man across from him--

***

”Don’t worry, dear. I’ll have this mended by morning and Pa will be none the wiser. Now you go check on the cows before he sees you haven’t done it yet.”

***

\--the walls of the room began to recede, the air rushing back into the space.

James stood, moving with a slow grace, and came to squat in front of the sofa where Clint was sitting. He was still watching him, his gaze calm, analytic, but not cold. He reached out his right hand, lightly brushing his fingertips against Clint’s shoulder.

The world was coming back into focus now, the prickle of the nerves in his arm reacting to the light touch bringing him back down slowly. “Sorry, I just…” What was he just though? He’d remembered that day in the brier. He’d remembered his father beating him after. Barney had tried to stop him, he always had, but they were young and their father had been a big man. Strong hands. Clint’s chin slumped to his chest. He’d felt the blows in his mind like he’d felt them that same day.

After a long time spent like that, James put his hand to Clint’s chin and gently raised it. Cornflower blue eyes looking back at him. He searched the stubbled face for a moment before spelling in his left hand, the motions especially awkward on his off side, “ _OK?_ ”

Clint nodded slowly, exhaling heavily through his nose. “Yes. I’ll be fine. It’s just…” he trails off, unable to figure out quite what ‘it’ was. For a split second, he almost missed those hours he’d spent not knowing anything, not remembering.

“ _ITS A LOT_ ” James nodded, his gloved hand fumbling from the _T_ to the _S_ , a frustrated frown crossing his face.

Clint snorted a quiet tired laugh, “It’s easier with your other hand. Especially with that glove.”

James shruged, then slowly spells “ _MOVS_ ”.

“I think you meant ‘move’ there, bro.” Clint’s lips curled into a small smile and he scooched to the right on the sofa, grabbing the arm when the room started its whirlygig act.

James’ reply needed no spelling, consisting of a single raised finger. But the corners of his mouth twitched up again as he sat down next to Clint, leaving a cushion between them.

The two sat in silence for a long moment, each taking sips of their tea occasionally and letting the air between them fall still.

“So…. I was telling you about what I remembered.” Clint said slowly, hand rubbing the back of his neck. “You know, before I…”

James merely looked at him calmly, taking another drink of the fragrant brew. Once he’d set down his cup, he replied, “ _yes._ ”

“Well… I’ll try.”

***

The air in the attic was hot and dry and still. The window at the base of the gables was wide open, but no air came in save the barest puff that only managed to bring a cloud of dust to life. They’d given up any real efforts to keep their shared room cool in the summer, opting instead to go out and spend what time they could get away with basking on the roof. Much to their parents’ chagrin.

Today though, they were inside. Clint was camped out sitting underneath the open window and Barney was sitting on the bed, both staring each other down like the Soviets and Americans they saw on television, glaring at each other over the border. Instead of the Berlin Wall, however, the two boys only had the small toychest they had dragged to that spot to act as a demarcation line.

From downstairs, there came the steady sound of chopping, the oven door being peeked open, and all the other telltale signs of dinner being prepared. The radio was blaring out a drivel of news which neither of the brothers cared about. They were engaged in a severe enough war as it was without conflicts in far away places to worry about.

“You suck,” mumbled Barney sourly.

“No, you suck!” Clint retorted, glaring back at his brother. “It’s not my fault you fell!”

“Well it’s not my fault!”

“Ya-huh!”

“Nuh-uh!”

Before long, the cold war had broken out into a scuffle when Barney had thrown a diecast mustang at Clint’s head, splitting his eyebrow in the process.

Arguments between the two often began this way, often ending the same was as this one did too, with both boys throwing clumsy punches, the fight dissolving into heavy breathing and gasping oaths of vengeance only when one of their parents interrupted or one of the boys escaped.

The two didn't argue; at least, they didn't argue with words. Neither boy was good at them, so they resorted to talking with hands clenched into fists.

The chopping sound from down below stopped before either of them had managed to split the other’s lip, though it was their Pa’s voice which held their fists still. “You two better not be fighting or I’m getting my belt.”

Their Ma’s voice cut through then, rising above the blaring of the radio, though it was not as a general rule a strong voice. “Come down boys, dinner’s ready! It’s your Pa’s favourite tonight and I don’t want you two keeping us waiting while you go wash up.”

So the boys did just that. They used cold water, applying it to the spots where their blows had connected enough to leave a growing red mark, and they cleaned their hands and faces with soap, and they wiped their dusty clothes with a damp cloth to hide where they’d hit the floor under the other’s weight. They’d learnt long ago how to hide their misdeeds and injuries. A spot of rubbing alcohol on a cotton ball pressed on a split lip staunched the bleeding; cold water liberally applied cooled bruises and lessened swelling; the same cold water on a shirt would loosen a spot from a bloodied nose enough to come out with some scrubbing.

When they were clean, their faces flush from the bitterly cold water they used, they scrambled out to the kitchen where Pa already sat at the head of the table. His big hands had a bandage on them from where he'd received a cut while repairing their tractor that afternoon. He was good with his hands, their Pa. If ever the radio broke, it'd be taken apart and the parts spread in neat rows over the workbench in the barn before anyone even had had the time to suggest simply buying a new one. In the Barton house, they did not buy new if there was a chance of repairing the old.

"What were you two up to up there?" he asked them both as Barney pulled the plates from the cupboard and Clint pulled the cutlery from its drawer. "It was awful quiet up there." Their ma silently set a glass of milk before Pa which he took and took a long drink from. He drained the glass, handing it back to Ma who refilled it and set it back down. "You two weren't fighting, were you?"

Barney answered instantly, "No, sir. You said no fightin' and so we ain't gonna."

"Ain't gonna?" Pa repeated, looking sharply at Barney, "You know we talk properly in this house."

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir." Barney knew to apologise as soon as the words were out of Pa's mouth. Anything less would be disrespectful, and that was another thing that didn't happen in the Barton house. There wasn't much that happened in the Barton household without Pa Barton having some opinion on the matter.

"Are you almost done putting out the cutlery, Clint?" his Ma asked quietly. When Pa spoke, you didn't continue noisy things like laying the table or pulling dinner out of the oven.

He nodded, placing Ma's knife and fork on either side of the plate Barney had laid for her. "All done!" he said as he sat down in his chair, settling into it and leaning from side to side with nervous energy. He always had more energy than he knew what to do with and more often than not, between his mouth running away with him and him running away with himself, Clint found himself in trouble at least once a day.

"It smells like you made meatloaf," Pa declared, inhaling deeply before his face broke into a grin. "You know that's my favourite."

Ma nodded. She knew  a lot more than most people gave her credit for. Instead of the proclamations of Pa, Ma simply did what she did quietly, doing precisely as she liked. She'd learnt long ago how to get away without attracting the ire of her husband. Shielding her two children though, that was something she never managed to get the hang of doing without consequences.

"You did something different with it," Pa sniffed the air as Ma pulled the pan out of the oven. "It smells different. Did you forget to put the egg in it?"

"No, Mr Barton. I know the egg is your favourite." She was spreading ketchup over the top of the loaf, just like she always did. Pa didn't like the sauce going gooey, he'd declared one night, pushing his still-full plate away. "It's the same as it always is."

The big man shook his head, still sniffing the air, "There's something different about it, what is it?"

Ma brought the pan over, setting it down on a crocheted trivet. "Maybe the meat is better this week. It was fresher, Henry told me."

Pa nodded, apparently satisfied. "Let me cut that," he said, though no one else had been reaching for the knife. They all knew that Pa liked to serve the food. Pa liked to be in control of things, regardless of what they were. Barney was a lot like Pa in that way, always needing things to be just so and needing to be in control of them. Clint was more like Ma though. You needed to learn to live with whatever life dealt you, even if it was a shit hand and a single two-dollar chip at the card table.

They ate in silence. The dinner table was not a place for conversation, it was a place for eating and enjoying what they ate. When company was over for Thanksgiving or Christmas or some other such holiday, the house came alive with chatter and laughter, but still, no one sat at the dinner table for it.

When the food was done, the dishes taken away and cleaned by the two boys, each standing on a small stool to reach the high counters, they all retired to the livingroom, putting on the television to watch the news. It was a nightly ritual. The Bartons would all gather around the small television, the two boys sitting on the floor by their parent’s feet, Ma and Pa sitting on the couch. At some point, inevitably, Pa would fall asleep, at which point Ma would usher the boys out to finish their chores while she herded the half-sleeping man of the house to bed.

Such was the case that night, although it took only a few minutes’ time for the big man who was their father to fall to sleep, and only a few minutes longer for him to be snoring softly from behind the bedroom door.

“Now you two come here, Barney, Clint,” she said quietly, sounding like she was getting ready to fuss over them in a way Pa would look at with blatant disapproval. “I saw you both had tears in your clothes, even if your Pa didn’t. So quick now, go put on your pyjamas, hand me your clothes what need mending, and I’ll do it so he’s none the wiser by morning.”

So that’s just what the boys did, Clint handing her his favourite shirt as though it were a holy relic. He’d torn the purple shirt in the brambles the day before yesterday while he’d been hiding from Barney. They fought nearly every day, and some days it was too much to fight with his brother as well as his Pa.

“Don’t worry, dear. I’ll have this mended by morning and Pa will be none the wiser. Now you go check on the cows before he sees you haven’t done it yet.”

When he’d returned, he sat on the floor between her feet, Barney already asleep snuggled into her left side. Ma had turned off the television, instead turning on the radio which she still called the wireless. It was tuned to a station playing the oldies, the volume turned down so as to be barely audible. The last thing he remembered before going to sleep there was his mother’s voice quietly singing along to the music on the radio, the sound of her tugging needle and thread through cloth punctuating the tune.

The next he knew, he was waking up in his small bed in the attic. He forgot to check the cows that morning and his mother had already left to visit Cousin Louise.

***

James was quiet for a long time when Clint finished. The words had come out in a torrent, unbidden by any rational part of his mind. It was as though instead of remembering it, he was reliving it. Perhaps not reliving, but instead living it for the first time again. The man took a drink of his tea, looking thoughtfully at Clint for a long time, sitting beside him on the hideous sofa.

“So…” Clint began, but there was nothing more for him to say. He remembered now his deafness as a child, remembered the taste of meatloaf and the smell of the brier in the thicket behind the barn. What he didn’t know, however, was what that memory had bought him; nor what it had cost.

The man was looking at him still, his face a calm mask. Finally, he spoke, his deep voice reverberating through the sofa and into Clint.

He couldn’t hear him, didn’t know what he said, but he knew what he meant. Clint smiled sadly, “Thanks, but don’t worry about it. I remember...that, but it’s like it was another person, you know? It happened to that little boy, but I can’t draw a line between him and myself.”

The man nodded, “ _yes_ ” was all he said in reply.

“The thing is…” Clint sighed heavily, rubbing his hand over his jaw thoughtfully, “You know, I recognise these people. My brother, Ma, Pa. I see them in my mind and I know things about them. I know that Ma liked the taste of fresh strawberries better than anything else. I know that Pa liked a finger of whiskey before bed on New Year’s Eve. I know that Barney broke the radio a month later because he couldn’t stand that I couldn’t--”

The man put a hand lightly on Clint’s shoulder, his eyes still looking at him more deeply than eyes should. Cornflower blue like Ma’s.

Clint looked down at his hands in his lap, turning them over, looking again at the dozens of scars, most small, which crisscrossed the surface of them. They were strong hands like Pa’s. Had he got the scratches and burns the same way? Fixing the engines and transmission of a tractor? Pulling apart the guts of a radio to replace a transistor? He didn’t think so, but who was he to know? Up until this morning he hadn’t known his own name.

Clint looked suddenly at James, frowning. “I don’t have any kids, do I?”

James frowned, seeming confused at the question for a moment until his expression softened. “ _no. you WORRY you HURT THEM?_ ”

Clint nodded, bunching his hands into fists. “I don’t want to find out that I’m the same man my Pa was. I don’t want to find out that I’m....” he paused again, fists releasing their white-knuckled grip. “I’m not a bad guy, am I?”

James shook his head ardently, “ _no. you ARE A GOOD GUY._ ”

With a quiet laugh, Clint flexes his fingers slowly. “Good guy’s don’t tend to have hands like this. Good guys have polished nails and manicured cuticles. They don’t have cigarette burns on their wrist.”

“ _no. you ARE A GOOD GUY._ ” James insisted, punctuating each spelt letter with an intensity Clint hadn’t seen the man put into anything he’d done before.

The man spoke again, articulating each word carefully, though as Clint watched his lips, the sounds didn’t form meaning.

“I didn’t catch any of that. Try again?”

James shook his head. Setting down his teacup, James picked up the pad of paper and pen, writing in it.

“Молоток может лодку строить или топить её.”

Clint frowned at the words, then shook his head. “I don’t understand. What’s that?”

“ _OLD RUS SAYING._ ”

“Really?” He could get him once with that, but he wouldn’t get him a second time.

“ _no._ ” James’ lips twitched up into a small grin.

“Ha ha. Make fun of the deaf guy. Come on, what’s it mean?”

The man didn’t answer, instead picking back up his tea and draining it with a visible contented sigh when the cup was empty. He stood, moving back to his position across the table from Clint, and poured himself another cup of tea, first pouring in the concentrated brew from the pot, then adding a spoonful of the pungent jam, and finally topping it off with the still-boiling water.

“Are you going to tell me what that means or not?” Clint demanded, sighing heavily. He didn’t have nearly the patience for this shit.

James simply sipped his tea, looking at Clint with a pensive expression.

Another heavy sigh and Clint drained his own cup. “Fine then. Don’t. See if I care.” He followed James’ lead, preparing a cup of tea for himself, the heady scent of blackberries again filling his senses.

***

“Barney! What’s going on? I can’t hear anything!” he was speaking too loud, he knew it, but couldn’t help it. Since the day before, it was like someone had shoved cotton in his ears and sealed it up with wax. “Barney?”

They were sitting in the thicket behind the barn. Barney was looking at Clint sadly. Neither of them knew what was going on, not really. How could you at that age? All Barney knew was that his brother was broken. Defective. And every expression of his face and twitch of his mouth as he spoke told Clint much more than the words he couldn’t hear did.

The blackberries were still plump and black when they had come back from the doctor’s office with the news none of them needed. His father’s hands had sat on the doctor’s desk the whole time, Pa’s large form hunched over as he concentrated on what the man in the white coat had said.

They didn’t go into the bramble patch much after that. They were forbidden by their father to go in the thicket. Mustn’t run away from your problems after all. Not like Pa did, though he never ran away with his feet.

***

When Clint looked up from the reddish tea in his cup, James wasn’t there. In his place, he’d left a note on the pad of paper, just below the Russian message from earlier.

“Nat will be home soon. She texted. I have to go. Enjoy the tea.”

A little further down, as if an afterthought, he’d written another short message.

“It means ‘A hammer can build a boat or sink it.’”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same notes regarding ASL and Russian as the last chapter. And thanks a million for reading, commenting, kudosing, all that! I really really appreciate it.


	4. Счастливая Стрела

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank my favourite β reader again, slightlylions. I also want to thank apostaterevolutionary for putting up with me shoving my writing at her when she's got better/smuttier things to read. Love both you nerds.
> 
> And thanks to you, dear readers! Without you lot reading this, I wouldn't be nearly as excited to post these every few days. This chapter fought with me every step of the bloody way, so hopefully it doesn't read as painfully as it wrote. Like I said before, I'm trying to keep to a 2-3 day turnaround for chapters, but as is probably obvious, I won't be meeting that every time. Still, four days isn't terrible, and 13k words in 10 days is still probably my record, so I'm not going to complain.

Clint had spent a long time then, simply drinking tea and wallowing in memory. It was a strange thing, to remember himself, much younger than now, but with nothing in between. It was as though someone had chopped the middle of his life out and simply mashed the two ends together like slices of bread that don’t quite match. He stood slowly, replaying his last memory of living in a world of sound, the quiet birdsong and the rustle of leaves filling his head. With a heavy sigh, he swept the thoughts away; it was about time he found out where the hell he was.

His feet were heavy as he walked slowly across the room, holding onto the arm of the sofa as long as he could while the room tilted and spun around him. Something was wrong with his balance. He’d been able to brush it off before as simply the after effects of whatever medication the hospital had had him on, but it had been hours now and it was little better than when he’d first slid down the side of his bed.

Between the ugly sofa and the wall was the narrow gap of walking space. Nothing to hold onto, nothing to make sure he didn’t fall. With a lunging step, catching onto the windowsill across from him, he made it, clutching at the peeling paint covered sill. The glass of the window was spotted with rain, but the brick wall facing him across a narrow alley was beginning to show dry patches blotching over it. Perhaps twenty minutes since the rain had stopped?

Without thinking, he turned, looking at the clock by St Turtle Wax the Beneficent. Apparently, it was still 00:00 o’clock. Tremendously helpful. He was about to turn back to the window when he felt the sharp rhythmic vibration of heels coming through his bare feet on the floor. As he watched, the lock turned slowly, then the handle followed it as the door was pushed open. Standing in the doorway was Nat, a large dufflebag carried on a shoulder.

When she saw him standing in front of the window, she raised an eyebrow. Clint wondered just what she expected to find when she came in. Him still asleep on the sofa? Maybe she didn’t actually expect him to still be here at all. The thought had crossed his mind, but never for long. Where would he go? He didn’t have a wallet, a coat, nor any idea whom he was in the world. He had a name, sure, but there wasn’t much that you could get with one of those without a lot of other things too. With a practiced efficiency, she jiggled her key out of the lock and toed the door closed behind her.

“Hey.” Clint didn’t really know what to say. What do you say to the strange woman who is having you sleep in her disused apartment after you get attacked and can’t remember your own name? Hey would just have to do.

She didn't respond, instead putting the bag down on the counter where James had put the shopping only a while earlier. Clint watched, curious as she opened the bag and started pulling things out, stacking them neatly next to the bag. A handful of purple shirts including a heavy hoodie in a similarly purple colour, several pairs of worn jeans, a cell phone, and a sturdy canvas leash, also, of course, purple.

When she turned back to him, she saw him watching the items with curiosity and grinned. Carefully balancing the pile on a well-manicured hand, she motioned him back to the sofa. He went carefully, repeating the awkward lunge from sill to sofa, glaring at the stupid floral print as though it were a grave personal insult. To be fair, it actually was.

The red haired woman placed the items on the coffeetable then sat down next to him. She looked at him, examining, analysing him for a long moment before picking up the phone and holding it out to him. He took it, turning it on automatically and looking down. It had a rather tediously generic picture of a dog as the background. “I can’t use a phone, remember?” he pointed at his ear as he spoke.

As he watched, she pulled a smaller, sleeker phone out of a pocket--how did clothes that tight even have pockets?--quickly tapping at the screen. After only a moment, the phone she’d put in his hands vibrated wildly, a message popping up on the screen.

Unknown#: just because you never learnt to txt doesnt mean the rest of us didnt

“I don’t even know how to use this damned thing and now you want me to text you?” he said incredulously. She replied with an artfully choreographed roll of the eyes and some more tapping.

Unknown#: im not the one who can’t hear  
Unknown#: you talk. i txt  
Unknown#: easy. now go change you smell like pharmacy

He sighed, pressing buttons on the phone until it locked, the grinning dog fading to blank black electronics. “Fine. Help me walk there, I can’t move without the room spinning.”

It took them only a couple strides to find their footing, walking with his arm slung over her shoulders, and the bathroom wasn’t all that far, all things considered. Clint sat on the edge of the tub, the door latching silently as Nat pulled it shut. With a tedium only borne by the invalid and down-of-luck, he pulled the illfitting hospital clothes off then pulled himself standing at the vanity.

He needed to shave. His blond hair was sticking up at strange angles and the bandages still wrapped about his head were tattered in several places. When his fingers worked their way under the cotton gauze and scratched there, the bandages decided that this was one insult too many and tore with an inaudible pop, fluttering their outraged contempt as they fell to the ground.

He washed his face in the sink, using soap that smelled of senility and jasmine, continuing on to give the same treatment to his underarms which likewise had an unpleasant odour, though somewhat more so than the soap. On balance, he figured, it was likely an improvement. Finally, he licked a hand, smoothing down the worst offenders in his hair, and decided he was fit for the world. Perhaps others wouldn’t notice the improvement, nor would they be likely to agree with his appraisal of himself, but at least he didn’t feel quite so homeless as he very well may be.

“I’m not...you know...a vagrant or something, am I?” he called through the door as he pulled on a pair of the boxers Nat had brought, stashed between the jeans. The phone she’d given him flashed brightly, the flash of the camera going off intermittently as the thing buzzed its way across the vanity.

Unknown#: no. you have a home. its where i got your clothes  
Unknown#: youre staying here with me so you can get better thats all

“Okay. Do I actually know you?” Clint was pretty sure that that was actually the kind of thing that you shouldn't say. He was also sure, when he thought about it as he wormed his way into one of the tshirts, that he didn't care.

His jeans were already zipped up and the hoodie over his head before the phone began vibrating and flashing again.

Unknown#: yes but ill tell you more while we eat breakfast

A deep gurgle in his stomach reminded him that tea was not in fact food and that the last thing he could remember eating was meatloaf with the eggs in it, just like Pa liked it. A slow sigh filtered its way through his teeth and he pushed the memory away.

As Clint shoved the phone in his pocket and opened the door, he was greeted by a puff of red hair leaning against the doorframe. “You said something about breakfast?”

***

It’d taken nearly an hour and two trains to get from Nat’s apartment to wherever she was taking him. When they got off the train, the neighbourhood looked a bit worse for wear, graffiti covering most free surfaces and the windows on at least one building boarded over. Going down the street a ways though, things looked better taken care of. They looked like the places hard-working people with not a lot of spare change to go round would live and work and play, they looked lived in, unlike the glittering pristine buildings in higher class neighbourhoods which still looked as though they had never seen the touch of humanity. Though he didn’t remember the places they walked past that early morning, Clint had the sense that his feet knew where he was, even if he didn’t.

They finally stopped in front of a small diner labelled only with a hand-painted sign which read ‘Green’s Deli since 1924’. The outside was just as in need of paint as most of the other shops along the street, but inside was bright chrome and clean white.

The two sat, Nat pulling her phone out even before her ass touched the dark wood of the chair. The phone she'd given him buzzed in Clint's pocket and he dragged it out, frowning at the message.

Unknown#: do you recognise anything?

He looked around, taking in the stained green tables, the chrome counter, the gentle vibration under his feet as a train passed far below. “No.” He wasn't sure whether or not it was the truth or not. He had flickers of recognition when he smelt the burnt coffee, saw the way the waitress' apron flicked as she turned to slide out from behind the counter. Sparks of light in the dark library of his memory which illuminated nothing. All that he knew was that he had memories here, but no clue as to what they were.

Clint put his fists to the sides of his head, crushing his eyes closed as he pressed them there, pain racking his head drilling down into his temples. If only he could find something, anything he knew, maybe he could find his way out from the dark.

He opened his eyes after a moment, reaching back to pull up the heavy hood of his sweatshirt. As he did, a clean white mug was placed in front of him, filled an instant later with a rich black brew. The smell of burnt coffee dregs pulled in some corner of his brain but didn't loosen anything there.

His phone flashed in front of him next to the cup. He opened the message.

Unknown#: she wants to know if you want the usual

Clint looked up, frowning at the waitress. Stitched helpfully into her apron was the name 'Dyna' in a decorative script.

***

A large white plate on green wood. Arranged in the artlessly elegant way diners have, two hard boiled eggs, shredded hashbrowns extra crispy, two sausage links, and two blueberry pancakes.

He spread the butter over the pancakes thinly, foregoing the syrup and using blueberry jam instead. With the practiced idle motions of a regular, he cut the heavy rounds into quarters and began to eat them. They weren't floury like most pancakes were and the blueberries burst when he brought his teeth down on them.

Salt on the eggs, pepper on the hashbr--

***

His phone buzzed again at him, drawing him back from his memories.

Unknown#: hello? earth to clint?

Clint looked up at Dyna and gave her a smile. It was apparently not terribly convincing, as her own smile fell slightly, slipping a few shades closer to concern. She said something to him, and he just shrugged lamely in reply. He didn’t know what she’d said, and if he were honest with himself, didn’t really care either.

“I’ll get my regular then, I guess.” He tried smiling at her as he spoke, the effect this time someone less dismal.

As she walked away, the phone flashed yet again.

Unknown#: james says youve remembered some things  
Unknown#: you should probably add me to your phone so it doesnt just list me as unknown too

He shrugged, then slid the phone across the table to her. “If you want to do that, go ahead.” Clint watched as she picked up the phone, tapping at the buttons with an ease he never felt with the thing. The coffee burnt his throat as he took a long swallow; the sensation was familiar and not wholly unpleasant. It wasn’t good coffee, but in the inky bitter savour, he found himself drawn back to that mental image of breakfast.

The phone was slid back across the table, ending up clinking soundlessly against his cup. A message was already on the screen.

Nat: you have any questions?

Did he? He knew he must, though organising his brain into forming them was quite another thing. He felt as though there were too many questions for any one of them to really be a good first pick. Did he ask what his job was? Ask how he knew her and James? Ask why he got attacked? Putting his life back in order seemed more and more like unshattering a mirror with each passing hour. You could maybe get the big pieces back in place, hold them still with patience and glue, but those individual slivers that gave the mirror its shine? Those were still going to lie scattered to the winds, no matter what you did. Maybe Clint would remember the broad strokes of his life, but would he ever regain the fine detail? If he didn’t, would he even be able to claim himself to still be the same person?

He shook his head finally, taking a long drink of the bitter coffee to clear his head, draining the cup in the process. “I don’t know. It’s all just...fuzz up there. How about you start off with who you are?”

Nat looked at him, tilting her head slightly, her lip quirked at one corner thoughtfully.

Nat: who do you think i am? do you remember at all?

He shook his head. “If I remembered that would I be asking? I don’t know who you are, I don’t know who James is, I know nothing. I know I have...had maybe, a brother named Barney, that my father used to…” he leant forward, perching his forehead on clenched fists. “I don’t even know for sure that Nat and James are your names. They seem… I don’t know. It’s like I’m just shooting in the dark hoping I get lucky.”

He felt the table vibrating as his phone buzzed, but he didn’t move to look at it for a long time. It was Dyna bringing two large plates to the table, the reverberating clink of crockery on the table getting him to look up.

In front of Nat was a large plate with two waffles and a baked apple, the whole sticky mess topped with a dollop of whipped cream. In front of him, just as he’d remembered, two eggs, shredded hashbrowns, two sausages, and two pancakes studded with the purple stains of blueberries.

As he salted his eggs, he flicked a hand to open her most recent message, sighing as he read it.

Nat: youll get there. give it time

Time. That was the thing he apparently had an infinite supply of now. Now that his life was on an indefinite hiatus and he had to figure out where to even begin looking.

The knife made a loud screech as he cut his sausages; he could feel it through the handle, even if his ears still just heard the cotton fog that filled them. Oh well. “It’d go a lot faster if you told me something. Anything,” he said bitterly, “Instead of just dangling me out over the hole that used to be a life and telling me to figure out what to fill the hole with.”

She frowned and furrowed her brows, watching him as he shoved a mouthful of pancake in his mouth. Finally, after he’d already finished a good quarter of his plate, she quickly sent another message. It took another quarter of his plate before Clint bothered to look at it.

Nat: you need to figure some things on your own. you wont believe us if we just told you, you need to remember for yourself. just trust us ok Clint? its hard but itll turn out best this way. we want the best for you

The two of them finished their breakfast in silence. Clint found occasional comfort in the memories which came from time to time of previous breakfasts in this place. The jukebox in the corner played nothing but music from the 1950s, and Dyna always played the Tennessee Waltz and teased him about getting him to dance. As far as he could tell, he never had given in. Too late now, he supposed.

Nat had pulled out a wallet and paid, leaving a generous tip. They’d left without another word passing between them.

***

They were walking down the street past apartment buildings, each a community of its own, when Clint finally broke his silence. “How are you expecting me to figure out what I remember when I’m just shooting in the dark?”

It took a long time before the phone buzzed in his pocket, and he was surprised when he read the answer, snorting with no small measure of derision as he did.

Nat: youve always been lucky and thats all it takes  
Nat: we have a saying in russian  
Nat: даже в темноте, счастливая стрела не может не попадать цель  
Nat: even in the dark, a lucky arrow doesnt miss the target

He looked up, rolling his eyes. “That’s not an old Russian saying, is it?”

The slight smirk on her face as they stopped in front of an apartment building told him all he needed to know.

She led him up the stairs of the building, helping him keep his balance when it threatened to abandon him entirely, and they made their way up to the roof.

When she opened the door, Clint stepped through and was suddenly overtaken by two different but equally powerful sensations.

First was the sensation of knowing this place. He didn’t remember it, not quite. Remembering it implied a series of memories attached to it, which he still didn’t quite have. He could sense memories, like words on the tip of his tongue, but couldn’t quite reach out yet and touch them. Still though, he knew this place. The grill over there, the overturned milk crates used as any number of pieces of furniture, the few beer bottles left from the last gathering up here. This place was part of his home.

Second was the heavy reverberating footfalls of something rushing up behind him, followed by the ground coming up to say hello as a heavy weight pushed him down when it jumped up onto his back. He felt a cold wet nose on the back of his neck and a warm wet tongue licking in his hair. After a moment, the weight was moved and he rolled over onto his back. Standing there, wriggling as much as its large body could manage in Nat’s grip, was a fluffy yellow-brown dog wearing a purple collar, left eye closed in a perpetual wink.

***

The long wet tongue lapped at his fingers, trying to get every last speck of the salty tangy grease which  practically dripped off the pizza. His other hand, the clean one, was running gently through soft fur.

A content smile played across his face at the excited bark Lucky gave when Clint tossed him the last crust from his slice. Perhaps he was the lucky one, not this dumb mutt, he thought affectionately.

It wasn’t long before a heavy weight of fur and dog were pinning down his lower body on the couch. It wasn’t long after that before both man and dog were snoring quietly.

***

“Lucky!” Clint exclaimed, the dog slipping Nat’s hold and bounding over to land on Clint. The dog was barking excitedly, his tongue lolling out of his mouth and his paws nearly twitching in excitement. When Clint’s arms went around him, the dog licked his cheek and ear and Clint smiled, really smiled, for the first time since he’d woken up in the overstarched hospital bed. “Hey, Lucky. I missed you too. Don’t worry, okay? I’m home now. I’m home.”

In that moment, though he didn’t remember this place, didn’t know which apartment was his, didn’t know how he fit into the world, Clint felt at home for the first time he could remember. When he checked his phone later, he found a message Nat had sent while he’d been playing with Lucky on the roof.

Nat: i told you a lucky arrow never missed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same notes as ever about Russian (no ASL in this chapter, but same note from Chapter II applies). I wish the pun worked as well in Russian as in English, but you can't have it all, right? Oh well, still pleased with it. I've also gone back and fixed my tense issues from the previous two chapters. I have the bad habit of only being able to really get any writing done at 2-4 in the morning, so I end up writing these while half-dead from exhaustion, leading to all sorts of dumb mistakes. I try to catch them, and I'm grateful beyond words to my β reader(s) for catching still more, but some still get through the cracks. I've hopefully caught all of them for chapters 1-3 now, but there's always the possibility that some more slipped by. If you see any problems, let me know!
> 
> And thanks a million for reading, commenting, kudosing, all that! I really really appreciate it, especially any comments you all might have. I honestly didn't expect nearly the attention this has been getting, and I really want to put out the best work I can, so if you have comments, questions, suggestions, even just a virtual pat on the back, I'd absolutely love to hear any and all of them. It means the world to me knowing that you all are reading and enjoying this, so thank you.


	5. Перестань быть глуп

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank my favourite β readers again, slightlylions & leathally_deadly. I also want to thank apostaterevolutionary for putting up with me shoving my writing at her when she's got better/smuttier things to read. Love all you nerds.
> 
> And thanks to you, dear readers! Without you lot reading this, I wouldn't be nearly as excited to post these every few days. I'm not sure how well I'm going to be able to keep up the pace on this thing in the coming weeks as I'm starting a class tomorrow which is an extra 2.5h twice a week on top of working fulltime. But! I still plan on being able to update at least weekly barring any further changes. We'll see.

The purple leash connecting Clint’s wrist and Lucky’s collar was pulled taut, forming a straight line from dishevelled man to overeager dog. They were walking through...some park or another. Clint didn’t really know nor care which it was. He’d figured out how to pull up a map on the phone Nat had given him and had doggedly followed it to the nearest green space. Then the next time to a green space farther away. This particular park had taken the two of them the better part of an hour to walk to, and would take the same back no doubt. After all, that’s how streets worked.

It’d been a week since he’d woken up in that hospital room and he was already using his walks with Lucky as an excuse to escape, at least for a while. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate what Nat and James were doing, it was just that they were always there. Always. Every morning, Nat took him on the train and they had breakfast at Green's. It was usually a silent breakfast. Nat never pushed him to talk, waiting for him to start conversations, and when he'd asked her why she'd just said she wanted him to be comfortable. Comfortable. He couldn't hear, he couldn't remember, and the only possessions he had to his name were a dog, a stack of clothes, and a wallet she'd brought him with only a wad of hundreds in it and a half-filled buy-10-get-1-free card for the coffee shop down the road in the spot where a debit card should have gone.

His balance had started to come back after the first day or two, though he was still iffy on stairs and standing up quickly, and he found himself better able to read lips than he had been. Now he got almost one-in-five words instead of one-in-ten! Improvement!

As Lucky pulled on his lead, aiming to sniff at a garbage can next to a bench, Clint sighed. The past week had brought with it a steady stream of memories and realisations. Most of them, were brought on by some sensation or event. He'd remembered that Lucky was originally named Arrow and that the dog loved pizza when Nat and he had walked past a street vendor selling greasy pieces by the slice. Going to the grocery store had brought back a memory of his father strapping Barney to the dinner table with a belt until he finished eating his vegetables, only relenting at ten o'clock at night. Each day brought with it a parade of disconnected pieces of his past, fractious chunks of time utterly unrelated to his present or one another apart from a repeating cast of characters and the focal point at the centre of it all, Clint himself.

While Lucky investigated a particularly interesting stain at the base of the trash bin, Clint sat on the bench next to it with a heavy groan and let the cool autumn air settle around him. It was nice, being alone in this park. He let time slip away from him, eyes closed on the bench, not quite sleeping, simply letting his mind wander. It was one of the things he found most helpful as he tried to fit the pieces of himself back together. He had tried pushing at the edges of memories, tried forcing them to split open wider, the tape in his head to play that extra second longer, but none of his efforts seemed to do any good. He was just as lost as before. Then, three days ago--or was it four? Considering he only had seven days he actually had to keep in his head, it was amazing how much one bled into the next forming a single smear of dully coloured of happenings, devoid of any real content.

He was just getting ready to heave a truly breathtaking sigh when he felt Lucky’s leash begin to pull slightly. The dog wasn’t actually pulling, but his interest in the trash can had flagged and he was standing up, attention caught by something. It was no more than thirty seconds before he felt a sharp tap on his shoulder.

Clint opened his eyes, blinking for a moment against the light coming in low over the buildings. In front of him stood two cops, one in behind, looking wary, the other in front talking away noiselessly.

The smart thing, Clint later thought, would have been to start off by informing the officers that his ears were currently decorative and that they would have to write things down for him to understand. That would have been the smart thing. What Clint did instead could, under no circumstance, be ‘the smart thing’, but he just couldn’t help it. The slightly overweight officer talking at him, his face getting progressively redder and redder as Clint ignored whatever he was saying, the short skinny one behind looking more like a nervous rodent than anything. What else was Clint supposed to do? It was fucking _funny_. So he laughed. He laughed loud and hard, Lucky hopping up onto the bench to lick at his face as he did.

The two officers stopped dead, looking at him, then between themselves, then back, stupid confused looks plastered on their faces only intensifying Clint’s laughter until tears began slowly rolling their way down his cheeks.

It felt like he’d been laughing for five minutes before the big one snapped out of his reverie and began shouting at him, wagging a finger in a parody of himself. Clint tried to stop, he honestly did, but it was only when the one behind reached for his radio that he finally managed to pull himself together enough to sputter at them, “I’m sorry, officers,” another peal of sniggering broke in, “It’s just that I’m deaf. Can’t hear a word you’re saying.”

Again the officers stopped, the look of confusion shaded this time with an expression as Brooklyn as anything could be. You didn’t need to know how to read lips to be able to read that expression and know it said nothing more than “Can you believe this guy?”

After a minute or two of the two cops talking to each other, the first quickly wrote on the back of a ticket, writing in all capitals in a tight square script devoid of much of anything in the way of character or personality. “You need to move along. We’ve had complaints. People think you’re homeless and they don’t want you here.”

Clint looked between the ticket and the cops for a moment before bursting into more laughter, only able to reply after an uncomfortable moment. “You have no idea, officers. Fine, I’ll move along.” He was still laughing bitterly as he stood, giving the two men a mock salute before walking on with Lucky.

***

When Clint finally arrived back at Nat’s apartment, the sun was dipping its yellow face below the horizon and the sky was growing steadily the washed-out bruise colour of nighttime in the city. He pulled out his key and put them in the door, but found it already unlocked. Strange. Neither Nat nor James were willing to leave the door unlocked even when they were already inside. He pushed the door open slowly, although Lucky was having none of it and pushed his way in, the leash slipping from Clint’s hand as it was whacked against the door in the dog’s excitement.

Sighing as he opened the door, any semblance of subtlety lost--thanks, Lucky--Clint immediately saw Nat and James sitting across from the sofa. That sofa had somehow gotten uglier as the days had gone by. He wasn’t sure how, but he knew it had. It had it in for him. It was then that his attention was quickly moved away from them to Lucky, who was busy jumping on the person sitting on the righthand side of the hideous sofa. Clint’s side.

He wasn’t sure when the right side had become _his_ side of the thing. Probably some time between when he first sat on it with James and when his ass had become glued to it from boredom while he read the same newspaper as yesterday again. Lucky’d eaten that particular paper shortly after he’d filled in the crossword with as many rude words as would fit. So what if he’d spelt ‘bastarrd’ with two Rs to make it fit? It fit, didn’t it?

The man on the sofa had blond hair, neatly arranged into a thoroughly respectable style. Lucky was too busy licking the man’s face for him to pay any attention to Clint, but he could still see from behind that whoever was sitting on the couch-- _his_ couch...in _his_ spot--was not a small man. His shoulders were broad and what he could see of him over the back of the sofa was firmly muscled. Clint looked away from him and met James’ gaze, mouthing ‘Who’s that?’ at him but receiving only a slight shrug in reply.

Nat was speaking now and Clint watched her lips intently, trying to pull meaning out. “...Steve(?) it(s?) fine. ...home now...step(?) worrying.”

Finally, the man turned, looking straight at Clint, his blue eyes looking relieved, though there was a hard edge of annoyance in them that he couldn’t help but notice. “Uh...hi,” was the best that he could manage to come up with.

The man smiled then waved, saying something with an infuriatingly slow deliberateness. Okay, Clint understood that he was trying to help him read lips, but it seemed more patronising than simply ignoring him would have done. “Hello, Clint. I’m Steve Rogers. Do you remember me?”

Clint shrugged, “No.” He said it simply, not feeling any desire to elaborate. He had debated for a moment asking the man to move, then decided he just couldn’t be bothered. If they were going to have little meetings about him without even bothering to have him around, he wasn’t really going to worry about being terribly polite. Between Nat and James watching him constantly, spending as much time as they could just being _there_ , and now this? No. He didn’t care. So instead, he kicked off his shoes and hopped up onto the counter, sitting crosslegged there.

They all watched him for a moment, none bothering to speak until Nat turned to James and said...something. With her head turned like that, he couldn’t catch any of it.

James stood, holding out Clint’s phone. He’d left it behind when he took Lucky. Originally, Clint took the thing everywhere. Then he realised that Nat and James wouldn’t stop using the thing to text questions about how he was and where he was whenever he went out. So he’d taken to looking up the maps he needed, committing them to memory, then leaving the thing turned off on the coffeetable.

James turned it on, opening up an app labelled ‘Talk to Me’. The screen became a simple black field, but as Clint watched, words slowly began to file onto it. He looked up and saw that James was speaking. The phone was...transcribing? It looked that way. There seemed to be a couple second delay between James’ lips moving and the words appearing on the screen, but it seemed close enough.

\--I got Stark to make this for you.

Clint wasn’t sure who Stark was, though he did remember seeing signs of a guy with a douchey beard on the subway with the tagline of Stark Industries.

\--He said it does English, German, French, Russian, and Arabic, but he hasn’t got it to translate yet. For now it just writes things down.

Clint frowned, already a little frustrated reading the white letters while trying to pay attention to what James was doing. It was one thing reading lips, quite another reading this...transcript. James continued speaking as he walked back to his chair.

\--It puts each voice on a different line but it won’t tell you who’s who yet. Hey Rogers, say something.  
\--Are you sure this thing is going to work? Wouldn’t it just be easier to get him  
\--I already told you, we’re not going to talk about that.

Clint looked up and shrugged, his brows still furrowed uncertainly. “Thanks. I probably could have used this earlier. A couple of cops tried to kick me out of the park as a hobo.”

A frown crossed Steve’s face and he began speaking, the words scrolling a moment later.

\--See? This is why you need to stop this stupid plan.  
\--It’s not stupid, it’s

Clint looked up and saw Nat speaking now.

\--better this way. You remember what happened when you overwhelmed Buck when he first came home?  
\--Of course I remember.  
\--Then why would this be any different.

Clint sighed. They were talking about him, obviously. “You know, if you’re going to give me a way to listen to you guys, you might try talking to me, not around me.”

They all looked at him, Steve looking hurt, Nat looking shamefaced, and James looking like the only one in the room who actually seemed to feel emotions unconnected with pity.

\--Sorry.  
\--Yeah, sorry.

Lucky padded over and under the counter near Clint, apparently sighing, as the phone helpfully supplied a caption.

\--Hrrff.

\--So Clint.

He looked up and saw that it was Steve speaking.

\--You were hurt a week ago now and you’ve been staying with Natasha

So _that_ was her fucking name! He’d been trying every fucking combination of things he could think of for a week now and it had never quite fit. Natasha. Not Nat. At least that was one mystery solved. Who Mr Shoulders there was was still a mystery, but so was everything these days.

\--and she and Bucky

And that was James’ name. Two names sorted out. Well, Mr Blondie was useful for that much apparently, even if he was a sofa stealing whore.

\--say you’re doing well. You can stay with them if you’re happy here, but you have other friends and we’d all be happy to help you get back on your feet.

Oh great. Now he was getting the ‘back on your feet’ speech. Everyone just wants to help, it’s all for you, we just want what’s best. He was wondering when someone was going to pull that one on him.

\--So how about it? Are you happy here or do you want to come see your other friends?

Clint shrugged. Was he happy? Well, right now he certainly wasn’t. Overall? No more than anywhere else, he supposed. “Sure.” It wasn’t the enthusiastic answer any of them seemed to be expecting.

\--Because if you’re not, we can get you a different place, a place with more of your friends, maybe somewhere more familiar?

“Here is fine.” It wasn’t that Clint wasn’t curious, it was just that infuriating feeling he got that he was being treated as an invalid. He got that feeling a lot. Nat--Natasha. It was strange using her real name now--was overprotective, always making sure she was watching over him like an injured bird. James--Bucky was just always...there; he seemed like he was watching Clint like you would a strange but intriguing specimen, trying not to interfere but always vigilant. So this new man? Mr Goldilocks? He came in, a perfect stranger, and was offering to have him meet more people, all of whom were sure to be other perfect strangers. He was getting offered a playdate with his chums. Wasn’t that fucking great.

\--See? I told you. He’ll be back soon, Rogers. Just give him time.

 The blond man turned back to look at Nat as she spoke.

\--How much time, Natasha? How much time before you admit that this was a bad idea?  
\--As long as it takes. You saw mutt happened with Buck.

‘Mutt’? Clint frowned, looking up from the phone for a moment, making to ask what was wrong with the thing before realising. ‘What’. The word was ‘what’. Apparently, the phone wasn’t as flawless as might be desired. Great.

\--Yeah I did. And now I see what’s happening here. We let him stay here, he remembers what, a new memory every once in a while? Still doesn’t know what he is?  
\--Would you rather he remember everything all at once?  
\--No! Of course not! That’s why we take him back to the Tower. We can tell him what he needs to know there, where it’s safe.  
\--Safe isn’t what he’s looking for right now,

For the first time, when Clint looked up to check what was going on, he saw James speaking.

\--he’s looking for answers and if he gets all of them at once, it won’t do him any favours.  
\--Look, Bucky, I know you’ve gone through something like this, but so have I and  
\--God, Rogers, why do you have to turn this into some big team love-in? This isn’t just another morale building badger for the troops.

Clint frowns, “Wait, badger?” But by the time the phone had caught up to their voices, they’d moved on and he realised by their blank expressions that, really, even though he could listen in on the conversation, he wasn’t a part of it. This was about him, not to him. “Nevermind,” he mumbled, watching his own words finally appear on the phone.

\--Really? And what do you think you would know about teamwork, Nata  
\--Wait badger?  
\--Nevermind.

It was only another few moments before they were back arguing. Around the time the phone started displaying Nat’s Russian insults, Clint turned off the screen and set the phone down on the counter.

\--Перестань быть глуп.

Without a word, Clint slid down off the counter and picked up Lucky’s leash which still hung limply, pooled around the dog’s legs. He didn’t bother looking back to see if they noticed as Lucky and he left. He didn’t really care if they had, if he were honest.

***

When they arrived at the park near Green’s diner, the evening had already fallen most of the way into night around Lucky and Clint. The glow of the city around them though was enough to see by, despite the dense trees all around. He’d realised when he got to the subway that he didn’t know of a way to actually get into the apartment he had been told was his, and so he found a particularly large tree in the park.

People had been sleeping outside for thousands of years, what was to stop him from doing so now? It seemed like the only real option he had anyway. He wouldn’t--he _couldn’t_ go back to Nat’s apartment, he couldn’t go to his own, what did that leave him?

Lucky had lain down in a soft bed of fallen leaves and moss and Clint lay next to him, laying his head down on the soft fur at Lucky’s shoulders. The dog had sighed heavily underneath him, yawned once, then quickly fallen to sleep. It wasn’t for a long time that Clint, cold in his jeans and hoodie, had followed. Dog and man slept quietly, if not restfully, under the boughs of a large tree, the city that surrounded them suddenly very far away as the stars crawled overhead and the moon shone coldly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same notes as ever about Russian (no ASL in this chapter, but same note from Chapter II applies).
> 
> And thanks a million for reading, commenting, kudosing, all that! I really really appreciate it, especially any comments you all might have. I honestly didn't expect nearly the attention this has been getting, and I really want to put out the best work I can, so if you have comments, questions, suggestions, even just a virtual pat on the back, I'd absolutely love to hear any and all of them. It means the world to me knowing that you all are reading and enjoying this, so thank you.


	6. В чашке чая

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good lord it's been a long time coming, eh? What, more than a month now? I'm really sorry. Except...I'm also not. I wanted to make sure this chapter worked how I wanted it to, and after a *lot* of futzing with it, I think I finally managed to get it into some semblance of order. Hopefully. Apart from that, I'm going to invoke my class that I had been taking as an excuse, because suddenly having 6 hours extra of stuff to do in a week, not counting homework? That's kind of a lot. At least, for me. Anyway, I'm hoping that the next chapter or two won't be nearly so long a wait. We'll see whether these people cooperate with me when I'm writing them.
> 
> I also want to thank my favourite β readers again and eternally, slightlylions & leathally_deadly. I also want to thank apostaterevolutionary for putting up with me shoving my writing at her when she's got better/smuttier things to read. Love all you nerds.

Clint was awakened some time later when Lucky shifted in his sleep. It wasn't much more than the heavy sighs that dogs often give in their sleep, but it was certainly enough to wake up the man using him as a pillow. Trying his best not to wake the dog up, Clint sat up, shivering despite himself as he felt the dew that had collected on him and his clothes drip delicately down his back. Right. That's why humanity invented indoors; so they didn't have to sleep outdoors. Outdoors was awful.

Despite his best efforts, Lucky had woken, stretching with a luxuriance only dogs could manage and stopping to lick his face.

Clint put his arms around the dog's neck, smiling as he pressed his face into the warm fur of his neck. "Hey, buddy. Sorry about this. I know I promised you I'd take care of you. Not sure I'm doing a good job of it." He didn't remember exactly how Lucky'd come into his life to begin with, but he remembered the promise. He'd made it to him when there was still heavy gauze wrapped around Lucky's face over his bad eye.

Just like that time, Lucky replied by woofing in his face and licking it. Of all the sounds he'd lost to the damned muffled whispering that filled his head, the ones he missed the most, he thought, were those that came out of this dumb mutt. He wasn't sure what other friends he had in the world--he was pretty sure he'd been friends with Nat, perhaps with James, but those were hazy vague feelings. He was sure that Lucky was his friend though.

"You don't hate me then, buddy?" he asked into the ruff of fur, relishing the warmth and steady gentle breaths of the dog. "We're still good, even though I might have made us homeless?"

Lucky squirmed out of his grip, standing with their faces only inches apart. He licked Clint's face, leaving a wet spot from chin to forehead.

Clint smiled and laughed, hugging the dog again. "At least I have you. I'd be in some serious shit if I didn't."

The two of them remained there, Clint talking to Lucky's rapt audience, saying whatever trifling thought came to mind. He always got the same replies, but that was okay. He had had enough of people talking to him, telling him what he ought to do, that he was doing well, that things would get better. All that Clint wanted now was a companion; a role that Lucky filled with flying colours. It was hard to argue when someone's answer to everything was to lick your face and breathe rancid breath on you.

***

Some time later, when the light of dawn had lightened the sky enough that he no longer felt like a gentleman of the night, Clint rose and stretched, the hem of his shirt rising enough for a shock of chill air to clutch his exposed belly. The cold air, along with the gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach waking him up faster than he had in days. His life in the mornings lately had been a portrait of sloth, getting up when he felt like it, knowing that no matter what the day was, he’d have nothing to do in it save eat and walk Lucky.

He was busy thinking about how he was going to find something to eat at this time of...night?--it was difficult to tell in the city what time it truly was beyond it being early morning--when he was distracted by a sharp tug on his arm. The leash, still wrapped around his hand, was pulled taught as a bowstring between Lucky and his outstretched hand. “What is it?” he mumbled, watching as the dog’s ears perked up and swivelled slightly, “You hear something, I guess?” Lucky’s mouth opened in a silent bark, then another, then he sat down and stared over his shoulders at Clint, the look on his face one which only meant one thing: He wanted something and he was whining pathetically in order to get it. Clint missed that sound, much as it was a horribly annoying one.

“Fine,” Clint said after a moment, watching Lucky hop to his feet and start tugging at the leash again, “Lay on, MacWoof.”

As they walked, Lucky didn’t stop to sniff or root around under leaves or garbage as he usually did, holding a straight unerring course. They stayed on the path, but the furry brown head kept turning to the left as if looking for a shortcut through the trees and undergrowth toward whatever had caught his attention.

It wasn’t long until they were out of the small forest and onto rolling grasses with the wall of dark trees behind them, and there Lucky began pulling off the path across the park toward where Clint was pretty sure there was one of the main gates back into the sprawling city that surrounded this small slice of nature.

The leash was pulled taut as they walked, Lucky’s head down, shoulders hunched tightly. Whatever it was, Lucky was more intent on getting there than Clint thought he’d ever seen him; at least, that he could remember.

At the gate, Lucky stopped, barking silently again at Clint before pulling him up to the left along the sidewalk. A block ahead, Clint could see the alternating flashes of light projected vividly against the buildings. Red. Dark. Red. Dark. The pattern of the lights syncopated by the multiple emergency vehicles up ahead. Far beneath the cottony haze that filled Clint’s hearing, he could hear now the faintest buzzing of sound. The sirens. They must have been loud enough to cut through the damage to his ears.

He sped up to a jog, the sleep of the night long abandoned now. He wasn’t sure how a deaf homeless guy and his dog could help, but if he could, Clint was going to do it.

He finally rounded the corner, getting a view down the street, cordoned off by an ambulance at one end of the scene and a police car the other. Crumpled steel. Leaking oil. The EMTs shouting to one another as they rushed to get at the people still inside the ruined cars.

***

“ _ms JOHNSON says that we have to go with the police._ ” Barney was translating clumsily, his hands fumbling as they repeated the message their elderly neighbour had given him. “ _says to get our coats and stuff. it’s cold._ ”

“ _why?_ ” Clint replied incredulously, “ _I don’t wanna._ ”

“ _because I told you, stupid._ ”

Barney had been talking to the old woman for a few minutes before he finally started translating to include Clint in the conversation. The police had knocked on the door of the small house and Barney had answered, although he’d closed the door in their faces after only a couple of seconds. Perhaps he was taking the instruction to ‘not talk to strangers’ too literally. He didn’t care; their parents had left him to watch over Clint instead of letting him walk into town to go buy comics with his friends. That had been ten hours ago, and they hadn’t come back yet. Both boys were tired and hungry and cranky.

“ _what’s going on, barney? why are the police here?_ ” Clint demanded, glaring at his brother as Ms Johnson looked on, speaking to Barney and pointing at Clint. “ _what’s ms J saying?_ ”

Barney waved the question away dismissively, saying something to Ms Johnson. He was facing away from Clint, his back to him. Since Clint's hearing had gone, Barney had been the best of the people in the family for facing him as much as possible. He might not be able to get much of anything if the angle was wrong but at least he wouldn't feel entirely isolated, only able to tell who was speaking by the flexing of muscles in people's necks as their jaws moved. Now he was refusing to face him unless he needed to sign, and even that was done half over his shoulder.

“Barney!” Clint said loudly, not actually sure how loudly beyond the jump the older woman gave at the sound.

“ _not now. go to our room and put some clothes in a bag. we're leaving in ten minutes._ ” Barney's tone as he signed brooked no argument, as much as Clint might wish to. He was signing the way Pa spoke.

Forty minutes later, Clint and Barney were sitting alone in a room in the Sheriff's station, waiting for the interpreter to arrive. When she arrived, she was dressed in a black suit and she signed with a monotone precision that made Clint ask her to repeat herself many times before he would believe her.

Their parents; Ma and Pa; blue eyes and grey; they were gone. “ _gone to heaven._ ” The woman signed pityingly. Dead is what she meant.

***

The brick wall behind him was cold. Rough; even through his clothes. His legs were folded in front of him, pulled up to his chest awkwardly.

Lucky was there as the red flashes steadily dropped down. Wet tongue on roughly stubbled face. One brown eye looking at him worriedly. Lucky’s. Two blue eyes watching him. Just watching.

***

“ _come on! hurry!_ ” Barney was signing into the palm of Clint’s hand as he helped Clint pack a small bag with shirts and pants. “ _before the witch comes back_!” They’d figured out quickly that without too many compromises, they could sign to each other in the dark by pressing their hands together. It meant they had to be right next to one another to communicate, but it was fast and silent.

“ _i know, i know, shut up, i need both hands to get it done,_ ” Clint signed back, shoving Barney out of the way as he did so.

They’d spent not more than a few months in the orphanage of St Old-Dead-Guy-Whoever before they went to Mama Jess’ foster home. Then it was Mama Tammy. Then Mama...who was after Tammy? It was after Mama Tammy that they’d just started calling them Mama Four, Mama Seven, Mama Nine. Now, seven years after that day at the police station with the stuffy liar of an interpreter, Clint and Barney were planning on leaving Mama and Papa Ten behind for good.

The parents at House Ten weren’t bad, per se. Not really. They were just…they didn’t understand. They’d tried for many months to get the brothers to come out of their shells, coaxing them with gentle prodding questions, but the boys had remained stalwartly reserved and withdrawn. “Poor dears. They’re still so lonely,” their foster parents used to say whenever the two would get sullen.

“ _faster! faster!_ ” Barney’s hands brushed against Clint’s shoulder in the familiar words.

Clint pulled the drawstring on his bag tight and hefted it over his shoulder, replying at Barney’s shoulder with his own hands “ _ready._ ”

Out the window, careful to close it silently behind them, both squatting like birds of prey on the shingles outside the high window; across the roof, padding quietly; hanging for a perilous moment from the eavestroughs to avoid crossing Mama Ten’s window; down the drainpipe into the thick bushes below the livingroom window.

***

His calloused fingers running over a thin white scar; metal of the drainpipe sliced into his fingers leaving a thin scar running across three of them. Lucky nosing under his hand, trying to get his attention, trying to get the same petting that always assures him Clint is all right. A hunched figure, purple leash in gloved hands; watching.

***

The wide yard around the foster house was easily crossed, neither Clint nor Barney noticing the slow pattering trail of drops of blood left from the new cut on Clint's hand. They had planned this; they knew where to go. Over the fence--the gate creaks when it's too humid outside--and around the corner, into the wide parkland that separated the communities from the interstate which ran through the centre of the small town. They could hide out in the scrub there until they were sure that Mama and Papa Ten weren't following, then from there they could hitch a ride wherever the roads could take them.

The bushes and long grasses in the parkland were cold and covered in prickles and dew, sharp and wet, tearing small gashes in threadbare cloth as quickly as skin, but neither boy moved save for the steady rhythm of anxious breathing.

It felt like an eternity had passed before Clint ventured to sign to Barney, the moonlight making it possible to simply sign without touching. “ _i think it's safe. they haven't come looking yet._ ” Both boys ducked down into the grasses as the garish yellow light from a car passing by washed over them.

It took a long moment for Barney to respond, “ _ten more minutes. then we go._ ”

Clint had never been a patient child. It was around then that the sense that waiting was still a good idea left his tiny blond head. “ _fine. you stay. i’m going over there. need to pee._ ” Before Barney could stop him, he was scurrying off through the underbrush toward a line of trees that marked the far border of the strip of parkland surrounding the highway.

The thistles and wild roses were dry and he could feel them crunch underfoot and rattle slightly when he brushed against them, the sharp spines catching his shirt more than once as he tried to stay low and unseen.

Finally, once he’d reached the black line of trees, he could stand up, his back cracking sharply a number of times as he stretched. It was cold and Clint hadn’t slept properly for the past week. As soon as Barney had told him they were leaving, he’d agreed; that didn’t mean he slept any easier on it though.

Clint stretched his fingers, feeling the hollow pops as his knuckles cracked trying to get enough feeling back in them to be able to undo his zipper to relieve himself. As his hand went to unfasten his worn and faded jeans, motion out the corner of his eye caught his attention. He dropped down, squatting behind the tree he had been about to piss against, and watching. Motion again, and this time he could see that it wasn’t a person, but instead the smallest hint of light flickering through foliage and landing on the white bark of a birch tree.

Barney and he had been in this area before; they cut school sometimes, Barney showing Clint where he would go to escape the Ten Family. There was no light beyond this line of trees. All that was on the other side of the small copse was a wide open field. Or, at least, that’s what ought to be there. That was quite evidently not still the case.

With slow creeping steps, Clint made his way through the dense trees, eyes wide and unblinking, trying to spot movement not borne by the wind. Closer, inch by inch, he sank deeper into the shadows, letting the shifting patches of light wash around him as best he could until he could finally peer through the--

***

Sunlight, golden-streaming along the road to his right. Dogfur shining like spun bronze. Purple sky to the left, fading to blue and copper-pink puffs of early cloud burning off like sky-dew. A worried frown, lips creased in shadow on its right, in radiant light on the left of the--

***

\--line of trees to see beyond. His breath caught for a moment as he looked on, and within no more than ten seconds, he was running.

Through the trees, over the hedgerow guarding the grassy strip, and back to where Barney was still waiting, still squatting and watching the road like an eagle. “Barney! Barney! Come on! You have to come quick!”

Barney looked up at Clint standing there. His breath coming in an excited pant, his blond hair in even more of a tangled mess than usual. “ _what?_ ” Barney asked, signing it with a sharp jerk off his hands and a deep frown on his face.

“You have to come quick, Barney! Come see!” Clint replied loudly. He had never managed to shake the habit of speaking ever so slightly louder than he meant to since...well, since.

Barney grabbed a fistful of Clint’s shirt, pulling him down and glaring at him. He simply watched him for a long moment before visibly sighing, a sharp heavy exhale through his nose. “ _fine. tell me what you saw and we can figure out what to do. just shut up, idiot. do you want them to hear you?_ ”

Clint shook his head, squirming out from under Barney’s grip and beginning to sign rapidly.

It was two days later before the two boys saw their photos in the local paper. The paper had blown in from town and got stuck, flapping wildly under one of the heavy brass poles which held up the thick chains dividing the waiting masses. They left town that night after the last act had been cleared away, each member of the caravan trundling into their trucks and wagons and heading down the road. It was around the same time the next year that marked the boys’ next visit to the hometown of the Ten Family. By then, Clint was performing in the shows, not just cleaning at them.

For many years, the boys stayed there. It was home--more home than foster care had been. And the tents and signs of the roving carnival shone with every colour under the sun, a kaleidoscope of riotous colours and sounds--but most of all, with the green of money, the brown of road-dust, and the quiet whispers of tires on pavement.

***

As the last vestiges of the carnival ebbed away, Clint blinked slowly, his eyes coming back into focus. His hand was tangled in Lucky’s fur, scratching the ruff at the dog’s shoulders absently. His ass was asleep, the sidewalk under him digging into his hips and the brick behind scratching rough and crumbling.

When he looked up, Clint frowned confusedly. “James? What are you doing here?” At the sound of his voice, Lucky looked up excitedly and before Clint could protest, he had two heavy paws on his shoulders and Lucky’s nose only an inch away from his face. It was only an instant longer before the wet tongue made an appearance, and Clint sputtered, trying to extricate himself from the mass of licking and fur that weighed him down. “Yes, yes, Lucky, I love you too. Stop, just--oh god did you have to lick up my nose? Seriously?”

Without a word--although, Clint realised, on second thought he wouldn’t actually know if there had been a word--James stood, brushing some invisible dirt off his jeans and looking down at Clint and Lucky. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a phone. Clint’s phone.

When he finally managed to take the phone around Lucky’s flailing affections, he could see a message waiting on the screen, apparently spoken by James at some point.

\--Come on. We’ll go home and you can tell me what’s going on.  
\--I’ll make some tea when we get home.  
\--There’s an old Russian saying.  
**\--** Мир находится в чашке чая.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same notes as ever about the Russian and ASL in this chapter, blah blah blah, go look at Chapter II for the full notes on these.
> 
> And thanks a million for reading, commenting, kudosing, all that! I really really appreciate it, especially any comments you all might have. I honestly didn't expect nearly the attention this has been getting, and I really want to put out the best work I can, so if you have comments, questions, suggestions, even just a virtual pat on the back, I'd absolutely love to hear any and all of them. It means the world to me knowing that you all are reading and enjoying this, so thank you.
> 
> I know it's a pain in the arse actually going and commenting, but seriously, even if it's just inarticulate rambling, I love that you all enjoy my work enough to inarticulately ramble at me. It's honestly the highlight of my day when I get the email notification that I have a comment on this. So thank you all so much, I really appreciate it. And please stay tuned! I promise I'm not dead and this *will* continue! Thanks.


	7. Следующий день

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! I'm not dead and neither is this story! This is where I'd put a bunch of excuses, buuuuuut meh. You know how it goes. Anyway, hope you like it; it's been a long time in coming.

Clint sniffed indelicately at his shoulder and shrugged. He wasn’t doing too badly, considering he hadn’t actually changed his shirt in three days. Or maybe four? It was hard to tell. Especially at three o’clock in the morning. Not that you would know the time by looking at the clock because it still gleefully declared in squared numbers that it was 00:00 o’clock. If he wanted to know the time, he had to check the phone he now kept sitting on the coffeetable. He kept it on at all times...except when it was dead because he forgot to charge it. He showed the joyfully blinking clock his favourite finger as a reward for its devotion to timekeeping. Time was a funny thing; one second it was going a minute a second and another it was going a second a minute...or something. Whatever. He needed coffee.

With all the grace a sleep-deprived man can muster at oh-my-god-why-am-I-awake o’clock in the morning, Clint stood, wrapping himself up in the oversized blanket he had taken to using. After he had spent the night with Lucky outside, Nat had berated him for half a silent hour. Oh no, she hadn’t berated him with words. That would be far too kind. Instead she’d fixed him with a glare that could only be described as a mix of unhurried annoyance and unsurprised disappointment.

James, on the other hand, had simply made tea again, just as before, with the small dish of blackberry jam laid out with two cups. They had drunk most of the pot before either spoke. It had been Clint to break the silence, those eyes, cornflower blue, still watching him. “I don’t want to… No, that’s not it. I don’t think that…” He had paused for a long time then, absently stirring his nearly-empty cup with the small tarnished silver spoon. “I won’t go out again without one of you two. Not until I can trust myself again.”

And so, he hadn’t. When Nat and James took their turns trading shifts watching over him, they would take Lucky out for a walk. Sometimes they would bring back groceries from the Russian market down the street. Sometimes they would ask him before they went if there was anything he needed. He rarely said yes, only asking for “Something to read that isn’t Tolstoy. Especially if it’s not Tolstoy still in Russian” or “Coffee, dear sweet Jesus just give me some coffee. Are my eyes brown? If so, it’s because of all this damned tea. Just give me coffee” or most recently “I want a blanket. And I don’t mean one off the bed. I want a purple one. Don’t give me that look, James. Go fuck yourself. But first, get me a blanket”.

He now wore that blanket around his shoulders like the purple mantle of an agèd king looking wistfully over his fiefdom as he surveyed the wide expanse of off-white cupboards, empty except for a few crumbs of flaking paint.

“Coffee.” He declared it to the empty room. He wasn’t sure where Nat and James were. He knew by now that they didn’t sleep here. Clint still was sleeping on the sofa in spite of the free bed in the other room. It wasn’t that he was stubborn… All right, it wasn’t just that he was stubborn. He’d also taken a perverse shine to the truly hideous conglomeration of fabric and sadly deflated stuffing. It was his sofa now, painfully ugly floral print and all.

Far in the back of one of the cupboards, behind a two-litre tin of beets he was sure wasn’t there yesterday, he found his salvation. A large glass jar of generic instant coffee. He hastily unscrewed the top, smelling the bitter tang of stale instant coffee. He sighed, content.

“You beautiful thing,” he muttered to the coffee maker, its own clock apparently in league with the one by St Reflecty-Head the Shiny over there, as it too displayed the wrong time. At least it had the decency to tell him that it was 0:00 o’clock though, so there was that.

He found a filter in one of the drawers, blowing some dust out of it and putting it in the coffee maker. It was probably clean enough. After all, if the filter couldn’t filter out dust, how was it supposed to filter coffee? He dumped some of the instant coffee powder into the filter, added another small heap for good measure, and set to filling the thing with water and setting it to brewing.

It wasn’t long before a stream of thick black coffee dripped into the pot, and he applauded his own ingenuity, saying quietly, “And to think people buy kettles to boil water for this stuff…”

Clint stood there for a long time, blanket-cape still wrapped around him, chin resting on the counter, staring at the steadily dripping coffee as it filled the pot. He felt something bump his leg and without looking down, he reached and pet Lucky’s fluffy head which was leaning against him. Since the Incident--he had to come up with a better name than that; it sounded too formal--the dog had been sticking as close to Clint as he could, frequently taking to laying down on top of the man as he slept. The dog sleepily nuzzled his head into Clint’s hand and Clint felt the shift in the dog’s lean as he lay down.

“Almost there...almost…” Clint muttered to himself as he watched the coffee slow from a stream to a trickle to finally single drops which clung for a long time to the machine before falling into the black liquid in the pot. “Yes!” he exclaimed, picking up the pot and looking around the kitchen, still petting Lucky as he did so. “I know there were cups around here somewhere....” He furrowed his brows at the cupboards then looked down at Lucky and shrugged. “It’s not like you care if I use a cup, do you?” Lucky looked up at him tiredly and sighed heavily. “I didn’t think so.”

Dog and man both walked back to the sofa, bare feet and soft paws making no noise as they went over creaky floors. When they got back to the sofa, they both piled back on, Clint first, then Lucky, laying over Clint’s legs like a pleasantly fluffy blanket.

With the pot of coffee resting on his chest in one hand and a magazine he’d already read in the other, Clint set about to reading the seventeen year old National Geographic he’d found under the digital clock by St Cueball the Magnificent. Clint was asleep fifteen words into a lengthy article on the Canadian province of Prince Edward Island.

***

A hand was taking his coffee. His dog had left him while he slept and now some rat bastard thief was taking his coffee. It was a big hand, well-calloused, and it worked the handle of the coffee pot out of his fingers carefully, apparently trying not to wake him.

“Badevilmantakecoffeegoaway,” Clint mumbled, not bothering to open his eyes as he fumbled blindly, looking for his purloined coffee. The thief had sat down on the edge of the sofa, perching himself in the spot Lucky had vacated some time before. “Gimmecoffee.”

Clint could feel the shift of weight on the cushions and the man’s back moving slightly where it butted up against Clint’s own legs. The fucker was laughing at him. First he steals his coffee, then he laughs at him? One or the other were bad enough, but this was simply beyond the pale. His eyes still closed, Clint reached out and groped around for the coffee pot, finding a solid well-muscled shoulder and arm and little else. “Gimmemycoffee…” he whined, his fumbling hands dropping heavily back on his chest in resignation.

The thief didn’t reply. Wait...no, maybe he did. Right. Deaf. No hearing. Oops. Clint opened his eyes, expecting James sitting there.

“Steve? It’s Steve, right?”

The big blond nodded mouthing carefully, “If you’re going to (hope?) around with coffee, at least do it with (casual?) coffee.” He was still speaking tediously slowly, but he wasn’t over articulating anymore, so it seemed either Nat or James had mentioned to him that it was annoying.

“Yeah, well I don’t have any actual coffee.”

“You know where the store is?”

“Nope.” He did know where the store was. He also knew that he wasn’t going to go out to the store. Easier just to lie, really.

“Neither do I. This neighbourhood used to just be...well, it was different when I was a kid.”

Clint didn’t have anything to say to that. Steve didn’t elaborate and Clint didn’t push the point, the space between them falling silent. Or rather, more silent? Could it get more silent when you couldn’t hear? Clint wasn’t sure and didn’t care to puzzle it out.

After a long while, Lucky came over and laid his head gently on Clint’s chest. He was whining. There was a certain face that he made whenever he whined, and it was more than obvious on the dog’s long face now.

Steve chuckled, “I think someone wants attention.”

“Then you better take him for a walk, blondie.” Clint thought for a moment and added, “And get some coffee while you’re out.”

The big man hummed and hawed then shook his head, “Come on. Get up. We’re going out.”

“Wha-...No? No we’re not. If you want to go out, have fun. I’m staying here.”

“Come on. Up up up. Get a move on. You’ve just been assigned a mission and it involves getting up.” Steve stood up and stretched broadly, his shirt pulling taut across his chest and shoulders. “Let’s go. You have five minutes until I take you as you are. Let’s go, Barton.”

Much to absolutely no one’s great astonishment, five minutes later at exactly 00:00 o’clock, Clint wasn’t close to ready, standing in the bathroom in a tshirt and boxers, absently poking at his hair in the mirror, not styling it so much as angering it. Steve pushed the door open and stood behind him, a pair of grey sweatpants thrown over one shoulder. “We’re leaving. Put these on.”

Clint grumbled, glaring grumpily at the blond behind him. “Since when are you my CO? Who made you captain of the fucking USA?”

The man’s face slackened for a moment as if puzzled, then twisted into a broad grin. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out someday. For now though, I _am_ your CO and you’re _going_ to put these on.” He left them on the counter and turned to go, stopping to look at Clint again in the mirror for an instant, “That or I carry you out of here without them. Hop to, soldier.”

In the end, Clint found himself thrown over Steve’s shoulder, bashing it with a fist as the sweatpants he had been tying half slipped off his ass. “Can you at least frog-march me out of here like a normal kidnapper? I’m not a fucking damsel in distress.” He’d finally been put down out the front door of the building. The grin on Steve’s face was enough to make him want to punch that stupid blond head.

***

They didn’t talk on the trains over. Clint spent the trips slumped in his seat, looking miserable like a proper New Yorker should when confronted with spending 45 minutes on the subway. Steve, on the other hand, spent his time doodling on sticky notes then sticking them to windows, seats, whatever vaguely flat surface caught his eye. Each had a cartoony sketch of a goofy dog with a perpetual wink giving people cheerful advice and encouragement. Apparently, Steve was really _that_ fucking cheerful about everything. Clint did find out what time it was though as they went and he groaned aloud when he saw that they were arriving at their last subway stop at a quarter to five in the morning.

It was only once they arrived at their final stop and stepped out into the early morning city that Clint’s phone buzzed, letting him know that Steve had finally spoken, an inscrutable little smile on his face,

\--It sure has changed since I was a kid.

Clint just nodded, following him down the now-familiar street.

\--You see that building there?

He pointed to a squat apartment building with an all-night grocery on the ground floor,

\--That used to have an army recruiting centre in it. And that one,

He pointed behind them to another building,

\--That used to have Mama Murphy’s Soda and Ice Cream in it. She made the best ice cream floats for a dozen blocks in any direction.

As they walked the short distance to Green’s Deli, Steve told him about this and that thing that had changed, the pet store a few blocks away that always had a tank full of turtles that always looked dead, but were just sleeping, as many a thoroughly bitten customer would testify to; the newsstand that used to sit on the corner, run by a man who spat his chewing tobacco into an old empty tin of peaches.

Clint found himself enjoying the commentary. It wasn’t that he particularly cared about the place, it was just nice to have an ordinary conversation, even if he had to follow it by reading it off his phone. It wasn’t a conversation he even had to take part in, not really. It was just a conversation between two people for once, rather than between two people and a herd of elephants in the room.

They stopped outside the diner and Steve broke into a wide grin,

\--They haven’t changed this place in years, you know. It’s been exactly the same since I was a kid.  
\--It’s a lot nicer now though. Someone decided to paint it again for the first time in 30 years.

Clint smiled slightly and shrugged, “It’s exactly how I always remember it.”

Steve turned to him, a surprised look on his face for a moment before he burst out laughing.

\--[laughter]  
\--Yes, I suppose it would be, wouldn’t it?  
\--Let’s go in. I could eat a whores.

Clint sniggered quietly to himself as he followed Steve into the diner. One of these days, technology would probably be able to transcribe speech accurately; if all the mistakes were as funny as the thought of the big blond eating ‘a whores’, Clint wasn’t sure he wanted to upgrade his technology.

***

They ordered from a sleepy looking teen: Clint, his usual; Steve, enough food for three people. Or at least for two very dedicated people.

They both seemed content to simply wait in the silence of the diner for their food. It wasn’t an expectant silence like with Nat. It was just the silence of two people occupied with their own thoughts. Indeed, Steve seemed far away, reliving far off memories behind those blue eyes.

It was only after they’d been given their mugs of shitty coffee that Steve turned his gaze back to Clint and tipped his head as he spoke. “I don’t suppose Nat or James have told you anything? Who I am? Who they are?”

Clint shook his head and drank a long swallow of coffee.

“I’ve promised them I wouldn’t tell you anything, even though I don’t think they’re doing the right thing here.” Steve sighed, rubbing his chin and stirring absently at his coffee, “But that doesn’t mean I can’t just talk to you, right?”

Clint shrugged, “I guess.”

And so, that’s what Steve did. Talked about the neighbourhood back when he remembered it. How the train used to be above the street on a platform running all the way from Broadway to the Brooklyn Bridge and even further if you cared to keep going. How the diner used to be a place of shadows and dark grime before the platform was taken down, letting light into the canyon of the street for the first time in nearly a hundred years.

As they ate their pancakes, blueberry for Clint, plain drowned in syrup for Steve, he told Clint about when he was a soldier. He didn't talk about the battles or the heroics of fighting against the enemy, instead he talked about the people.

He told Clint about the men and women he served with, told him stories of late night debauchery when food and liquor were plentiful, and stories of hardship and hunger when they were scarce. Told him stories of dancing with strangers in far off countries and dancing with strangers at home.

As they finished their third and then fourth cups of coffee, Steve told him about coming home from the war, about feeling lost in familiar streets and feeling alone in a crowded room.

And finally, as he paid the bill, Steve fell quiet, his stories running out and his memories settling down, sated in the telling.

For the first time, Clint spoke, the words coming slowly, deliberately, “I think that…” he furrowed his eyebrows, “I was a soldier, wasn't I?”

Steve watched him carefully before answering, “Do you remember being a soldier?”

Clint shook his head, “No. I guess, not really, I mean. Not like that. I remember being a part of something though. Being…” He balled his hands into tight fists in his hair, “I don't know. It's just so… So far away. It's like…” he shrugged helplessly.

Steve nodded after a moment, “That's why we're here, Clint. Even if you don't know who you are or who we are, we're still going to be here for you. And we're here for you because _we_ know who you are.”

The big man stood, not lingering over the sentiment. “Let's head back. Buck is probably wondering where you got to.” He grinned at Clint's confused look, “I might have neglected to tell them I was coming to see you… Or that I was kidnapping you for breakfast.” The blond jackass winked. Clint found himself smiling in spite of himself.

***

That night, long after Steve had finished arguing with James, long after Steve had come back a few hours later with a handful of comic books and a tin of ground coffee, long after James had made them tea and drunk it in silence with him, Clint slept.

For the first time since he’d woken up in the hospital bed, he dreamt.

***

A palace, floating on clouds; no, not a palace; a fortress, suspended like a fly in the crystal blue amber of the sky; people, like ants, crawling over the body of the lumbering fortress’ bulk; clouds rent to ribbons of gossamer silver, threads of steel and grains of glass shattering the sunlight into a glittering stream, bright embers of light dancing, cloud covered shimmering wings, and all trapped, caught in the quiet amber embrace of the too blue crystal sky.

***

It was cold in the small apartment when Clint awoke, early in the chill of the morning, and he pulled both blanket and dog closer to escape it's icy fingers.

On the table, long forgotten, was a note left by Nat a few days ago.

 _Old Russian saying:_  
_Следующий день смоет грехи вечера._  
_The new day washes away the sins of the evening._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blah blah blah, same notes as always about my lack of skills in Russian and sign, blah blah whatever.
> 
> Blah blah blah, same notes as always about thanks, comments, kudoses, etc. etc. you know how this all goes by now.
> 
> This chapter was about half-beta read, so whichever half had the mistakes in it, it was their fault. I kid, of course, it's mine. My beta readers are awesome. Give a hearty thanks to leathally_deadly and EVVS, without whom this chapter would be crap. Or at least, crappier.


	8. Дыши. Тяни. Стреляй.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's still here! It's me! So here's another chapter.

Windshield wipers slapped back and forth across his still sleep-hazed vision as Clint came to. He was in a car. He hadn’t been in a car when he went to sleep, yet here he was, buckled in snugly, his seat tipped back at a comfortable angle, and his purple blanket lain on top of him. From the angle he was at, he couldn’t properly see the driver, but he could see the black sky tossing buckets of rain down on them and the occasional crack of lightning darting across the sky. With each ozone-blue flash, a moment later he felt...he _heard_ the deep rumble of thunder in the pit of his chest, rattling his ribs and making the hairs on his arms stand on end.

Clint fumbled for a while trying to disentangle himself from the blanket, trying to reach for the buttons which would reset his seat to the upright and locked position. He looked over again as they rounded a bend and saw a distinctly metal hand on the steering wheel, then the car was straightening out and the hand was hidden again. With a shuddering jerk, Clint’s chair was suddenly back vertical, the motion jarring him fully awake.

Ahead of them, the road was a dirt track, sodden by the rain until it was little more than a muddy stain. They were driving between large trees, branches heavy with red and golden leaves dropping in a fluttering swarm with the slightest rain-soaked breeze. In front of him, lashed crudely to the dash with duct tape, was his phone, the transcription app running.

\--Is the sleeping beauty finally waking up?  
\--Welcome back to the land of the living.  
\--No, no, take your time flailing around the car, it’s not at all distracting.  
\--Jesus, Clint. It’s the seat of a car not a spaceship, it’s not that hard.  
\--There you go. Better?

Clint looked over at James and glared sleepily for a moment, “Why did you kidnap me?”

James rolled his eyes, tipping his head back and looking up as if in prayer.

\--I didn’t kidnap you.  
\--I just carried you out from the apartment while you were sleeping and buckled you into the car so we wouldn’t get there too late.  
\--Nevermind. I totally did kidnap you. You’ll find out why later.

Clint harrumphed and glared out the windscreen at the dark road which was slowly brightening as the sun crept above the horizon behind the stormclouds which still blotted out the sunrise.

It wasn’t long before Clint looked over again at James and said absently “Your hand’s metal.”

Clint watched James for a while, waiting for a reply, but none came. “Did you hear me?”

The driver shrugged slightly, finally replying.

\--Yep.  
\--People just usually have more to say about it than that though.  
\--So really nothing else to say?

Clint shrugged, “No? Am I supposed to? A hand’s a hand.” He thought for a moment before he tipped his head thoughtfully and added, “Although my theory that you’re a robot does seem more likely than it did before.”

He tried to deadpan it. He really did. But before he knew it out of the corner of his eye he caught a grin spreading across James’ face and he couldn’t help but grin and chuckle himself.

\--Hey, at least if I’m a robot I’m on your side, right?

Clint thought about this for a moment then squinted and, still grinning, replied “But how do I know you’re on my side? Maybe you and Nat and Steve are all robots here to trick me into trusting you.”

James shook his head and laughed, although it seemed more forced than before. He held out his right hand, pinkie extended, driving with his metal hand at 12 o’clock on the steering wheel.

\--I promise I’m on your side. Even if I am a robot from the future here to take down the government.

Clint smiled and shook pinkies, nodding contently. “Well then, I guess I’m a collaborator now.”

***

As they drove for the next few hours, they didn’t talk much. They let the miles slop wetly under the tires as they went from dirt road to dirt road, the rain steadily letting up until the first slivers of bright sunlight slashed through the clouds.

Eventually, the road ran out under them but James kept driving over a disused grassy track through the shady woods until they reached a field, half a mile around, with a small house--a cabin, really--squatting in the middle of it. The building was only a single story, painted a simple whitewash aged to grey. It looked simple, but taken care enough that someone must visit not too infrequently.

\--We’re here. Watch out, the grass turns marshy in the rain.

Clint nodded and unbuckled himself. His hands rubbed over his stubbled face and he yawned, ending the yawn in a luxurious stretch.

\--[languid yawning]

The phone apparently knew the difference between grades of yawning. That was...only the littlest bit unsettling.

When Clint stepped out of the car he discovered three things in rapid succession. First, they weren’t in a car, they were driving some truck thing. Second, the grass did, indeed, turn to a marsh in the rain. And lastly, he had kicked his shoes off as he slept in the car, leaving him in his now soaked socks.

“Aw, socks, really?”

His phone vibrated in his hand to let him know James had spoken. Well _that_ was a new feature. It must have updated at some point.

\--You forgot your shoes in the car and now your socks are soaked.

“No… Maybe… Fine, yes, just tell me you have--” Clint was cut off by James appearing from the back of the truck with a package of socks and a grey towel.

James signed to Clint, slowly but much more confidently than he had at first. James had mentioned he was taking regular classes, as was Steve, and while Nat hadn't mentioned anything, Clint suspected she either knew it already or was in the classes as well.

After a moment, James waved a hand to get Clint's attention. Shit, he hadn't been paying attention. James shook his head, smiling slightly, and repeated himself.

_“i bought purple socks for you. come sit on the bumper.”_

Clint nodded and squelched through the muck, wincing slightly with each soggy step.

_“up. sit here.”_ James signed again and Clint complied, craning his neck to take in the surroundings more fully. James tapped Clint’s shoulder to get his attention, _“give me your foot.”_

“Don’t worry about it, I still remember how to put on socks.”

James shook his head, holding up the towel, _“easier if i help. give me your foot.”_

So Clint did, lifting his foot and placing it on the towel. James eased the sock off, tickling only slightly. “Your hand isn’t as cold as I thought it would be,” Clint said as James held it in his left hand.

Signing awkwardly with his right hand, James replied, _“heated inside.”_

“Ah. That makes sense, I guess.”

And so, James carefully dried Clint’s foot, taking care not to tickle the sole as he did so. Last, he put one of the purple socks on, the wooly fabric warm and soft. _“other foot.”_ He repeated the procedure again, and to Clint’s surprise, he didn’t look put upon or annoyed at helping a grown man put on socks. He just looked like he was fulfilling a duty.

“Thanks. Could you grab my--” James interrupted him by lifting the cover over the bed of the truck and pulling a shoebox out of it. “--shoes… I guess you thought ahead.”

_“foot,”_ James signed, pulling a pair of sturdy leather boots out of the box and untying the laces. Clint gave him first one foot, then the other, and James put the heavy boots on his feet and tied them with a practiced efficiency.

_“finished,”_ James signed, smiling at Clint.

“Okay, now are you going to explain why we’re out here?”

_“no.”_ James reached into the back of the truck again and pulled out a series of long metal cases. The biggest was around six feet long, the smallest more like bulky suitcases. The longest had a wide strap running the length of it to let it be carried across the back, although it still stuck a long ways above even the tallest of people’s heads.

“Which should I carry?” Clint asked, eyeing the cases each in turn, trying to see through the case to figure out what was inside.

James pointed to the longest case and a smaller case, both of which had the carrying straps. Clint grabbed the long one, putting it around his shoulders so it slung down across his back at a comfortable angle. He carried the other case in one hand, watching as James picked up and arranged the three other cases.

_“there’s a backpack in the truck. can you grab it?”_

Clint nodded, squishing through the waterlogged turf back to the truck cabin where he found a large grey backpack sitting behind his seat. He put it on over top of the long case, finding it light enough that he could carry the both without difficulty.

_“oh, i was going to carry that. are you sure you don’t want me to?”_

Clint shook his head, “I have three, you have three. This way it’s even, right?” James smiled and shrugged. “Well, lead on, MacDuff.”

James frowned, carefully spelling out _“LAY ON MACDUFF, not LEAD.”_

Clint shrugged, “Whatever. I barely remember who I am and you expect me to remember my Shakespeare?” A wicked grin crossed Clint’s face after a moment, “Nerd.”

Shaking his head, James sighed and turned, leading Clint down a barely-visible path into the woods.

***

It was perhaps twenty minutes later that they came to another field, a small ridgeline hill running along one side. As they stepped into the clearing, Clint immediately saw small targets running in a neat line along the hill. They were at least 150 yards from the targets, but they stopped, not approaching into the clearing any further.

_“here. do you mind if i speak?”_ James signed after putting down the cases he was carrying.

Clint did the same, putting his own load down on the driest patch of turf he could find. Once his hands were free, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and held it up for James. “Sure, go ahead.”

\--Thanks. It’s just easier this way. I’m not as good as I probably should be yet.

“Nah, you’re fine. Although I’m still wondering why you kidnapped me. Are you really a secret government assassin sent out on a hit to get rid of the sad deaf guy?”

\--Well, yeah. But doesn’t that mean I’m a _robot assassin_?

“I guess so. But I’m a collaborator already, so in for a penny, in for a pound, I guess.”

James shrugged, smile shifting to a more businesslike expression.

\--Go ahead and open the cases now.

Clint sat on his haunches, turning the smaller case towards him. It wasn’t locked, simply latched with a turn-latch that kept it closed when not in use. As he turned the small metal tab, he felt the latch click a couple of times before it released. He opened the case, looking up at James for a moment. The man’s face was inscrutable, a mask of calm intensity. When the lid was open, he tipped his head to the side. A shiny black quiver, expertly wrought in engraved leather, filled with perhaps two-dozen arrows.

With slow fingers, he pulled an arrow out, turning it around to examine it. It was fletched in feathers dyed a rich violet, the point a simple bodkin, the shaft some artificial material that glinted in the occasional shaft of sunlight which lanced through the still-ominous clouds overhead.

He took the quiver out, replacing the arrow into it, and found the strap neatly tucked behind it in the case.

“Is that what we’re here for? Archery? But…” Clint looked at the quiver, fingers trailing over the engravings in the leather. “But why?"

James gave the smallest of shrugs and motioned for him to put it on.

Clint frowned slightly, but fit the strap around his shoulders to lie on his back, the shafts of the arrows just poking out from behind his right shoulder.

Without waiting for James’ instruction, he went to the other, much longer case and opened it, the latch again clicking in his fingers. A long, wooden bowstaff. The two ends were capped in dark nocks, each carved from a piece of horn. The bow was a simple piece of wood, apart from the nocks; all the time spent curing and carving it was invisible beyond the slender curve and the piece of leather cord tightly wrapped around the middle of the bow.

Clint pulled the bow out and looked up at James, “Did I shoot a bow before? I don’t recognise it, but you must think I would or we wouldn’t be out here, right?”

James just shrugged, watching him intently for a moment before speaking, Clint’s phone flashing on the grass where he’d set it aside.

\--Does it matter why? We’re here to shoot, that’s all.  
\--Now string your bow. The bowstring is in the side compartment there.

Clint looked back to the case and flipped open the lid on a small side compartment. Inside was a long bowstring, a yellowish natural fibre, one end braided into a permanent loop, the other loose and carefully wrapped at the end in knotwork to stop the cord from fraying. Just offcentre, coarse black thread was wrapped tightly around the string, the thread fraying slightly in the middle.

“But I don’t know how to string a bow.” Clint looked at James who was watching him, his expression one of careful guarded interest.

James just shrugged.

\--Just do it. If it’s wrong, I’ll help.

Clint’s eyebrows furrowed as he looked from bowstring to bowstaff. He didn’t know how to do it. He huffed, his lips bunching into a tight frown. There really wasn’t anything for it, he supposed.

With clumsy fingers, Clint took the plain end of the bowstring and looped it once around itself to form a large loop. He wrapped the loose end through the loop once, twice, a third time, then tucked it back again through the original loop, tightening the whole knot down until a small tight loop remained. Carefully, he looped the bowstring onto one nock of the bow.

Without looking to James for guidance, Clint stood and held the bow out in front of him. He braced one end against a foot, putting his other leg between bow and string, and used the leverage to bend the bow enough to slip the top loop over the bow, setting it into the nock at the top. As he stepped back through the bow, careful not to jar it as he passed his foot back between string and bow, he looked to James.

James was smiling. It was just the faintest tick of the corner of his lips, but it was there as sure as anything.

_“good job. perfect,”_ he signed.

Clint looked down at the bow, his hand holding it around the staff at the leather wrapping. He watched as James squatted down and followed the same procedure, his bow a simple wooden staff notched at top and bottom directly into the wood. As James strung his bow, Clint tugged experimentally on the string of his own, feeling the tension of wood and bowstring fighting one another. The wood curved delicately as he pulled, feeling the tension transfer from wood to cord into his arms and shoulders. The action felt natural, though he had no memory of doing it.

Without signal from James, Clint bent down, reaching back into the bow’s case, and pulled out a small case of wax. Carefully, in long even strokes, he waxed the bowstring, smoothing the wax into the fibres with his fingers.

As he watched, James stepped forward and picked up Clint’s phone, handing it back to him.

\--Keep this in your pocket so you can feel it buzz.  
\--We’ll do this together, all right?

Clint nodded, tucking the phone away.

They walked a few paces forward into the field until they found a pair of stones, perhaps six paces apart, paralleling the targets on the hill beyond.

Following James’ motioned instructions, Clint moved until he was standing in the middle of the two stones, facing the targets. James stood to his right a few feet ahead so Clint could see him without turning away, but not so close that he was between Clint and the targets.

James looked at Clint and nodded. _“square yourself. stand straight.”_ Clint adjusted his stance, feeling a growing familiarity as James directed him through the procedure. His sentences were short, clipped, and occasionally he spelt a word he couldn’t sign, but Clint understood well enough. _“clear your thoughts. nock your arrow. focus. relax. inhale. exhale. face the target. pick your target. watch it. close one eye. breathe in; bow up. breathe out; pull back. raise your angle. steady. focus. anchor the string. loose.”_

Clint opened his closed eye and a moment later, the purple fletching of the arrow met the red centre of the target. He breathed slowly, evenly, letting it sink in. “I used to do this a lot.”

James nodded. _“every day.”_

Looking from James to his bow, then across the wide gulf of turf to the target, Clint exhaled, “It feels...good. Like everything just...sinks down and there’s nothing except the arrow.”

_“take out your phone?”_

Clint nodded, feeling it buzz in his pocket even as he did so.

\--That’s why you taught me to shoot.  
\--Whenever I forget myself; forget who I am, you told me to find you and shoot arrows until I didn’t feel it anymore.  
\--Until I couldn’t feel the whirlwind anymore.

There was a long pause and Clint looked up to find that same searching expression on James’ face. It broke after a while when he spoke again.

\--That’s why I brought you here.  
\--Even if you don’t remember anything, at least you’ll feel the ground under your feet again.

Another long pause, though this time it was the target, far across the damp green turf, that caught his attention. He had done that. He’d let go and he had known what to do. Clint smiled and turned back to his phone.

\--We’ll go again.  
\--You know the steps. I’ll just say the words out loud and you’ll feel the buzzing.  
\--First buzz, ‘Дыши’. Second buzz, ‘Тяни’. Third, ‘Стреляй’.

Clint frowned at the Russian words, “Why not ‘Ready. Aim. Fire.’? Why in Russian?”

\--Because those are the words you used when you taught me. They mean the same thing anyway.  
\--It doesn’t matter what the words are, you’ll be paying attention to the buzzing.

He shrugged and nodded after a moment, shoving the phone back in his pocket. “Fine, then by your lead.” He looked sidelong at James who was standing to the side, squaring himself off to the targets. “Or should that be ‘by your lay’?” He sniggered quietly to himself.

_“eyes on the target, asshole,”_ James signed, his lip quirked just enough to give away a grin.

Clint straightened himself to the targets, breathing in and out slowly as he nocked another arrow.

_Bzzz_

He raised the bow, finding the centre of the target; breathed in; out.

_Bzzz_

Pulled back; aimed, up a few inches to compensate the distance.

_Bzzz_

Loose.

Two flashes of colour appeared on the targets, one purple, one red. Only a few seconds and another arrow was nocked.

_Bzzz_

Raised. Centred.

_Bzzz_

Draw.

_Bzzz_

***

They fired volley after volley of arrows, tromping across the field to retrieve them when their quivers ran dry. They shot, not communicating, neither signing nor speaking, for as long as they shot. The arrows were tugged rudely from their targets again and again then loosed back into the darkening sky.

After they had been shooting for a long time, they stopped and packed away their bows, their arrows, and set back for the truck. It had been long enough that Clint had lost count of how many times he’d set his stance, pulled back on the string, then felt the sharp snap of the release as the bow recoiled against its own force, and as they walked back, James opened the last unopened case and handed Clint a sandwich. Simple ham and cheese. It tasted right for that day. It wasn’t fancy, it wasn’t gourmet or expensive; it was simple and right.

When they got back to the truck, they stowed the gear and James pulled two hoodies out of the backpack Clint had been carrying. As they got back in the truck, fat raindrops began to fall from the clouds which had scurried back to cover the sky after they’d seen the pair of men finish their shooting.

On the way back to the small apartment in Brooklyn, the one with the portrait of St Gold-no-locks, the rain turned into sleet, then into fat snowflakes that stuck to grass and trees and melted into the wet black tar of the highway.

***

That night, as the snow which had managed to avoid melting in the evening city melted into a thin slurry of dust and road oil and the mud off of millions of shoes, Clint dreamt.

***

The floating palace, streaming light sugaring the lines of the sky-fortress like rich icing and colourful sweets. A beast taking chunks out of the sugary palace, not eating them but tearing, ripping, breaking through them and tossing them aside like scattered candies.The beast is not the monster, hidden deep inside the palace. Deep within, a crystal jar holding the monster in a flying dungeon. The beast, the monster, the dozens of people like ants crawling over a sugar and steel hive. All trapped within the blue amber sky, the scurrying scatters of clouds trailing in cottonpuffs over their heads.

***

Clint only half-woke, awake enough only to rearrange his blanket against the snowy chill outside, tucking his sock-clad feet back underneath. With a blind reaching hand, he shut off the phone, clearing the hundreds of messages of the day.

\--Дыши.  
\--Тяни.  
\--Стреляй.  
\--Дыши.  
\--Тяни.  
\--Стреляй.  
\--Дыши.  
\--Тяни.  
\--Стреляй.  
…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, the same notes as usually about Russian, sign, and whatever. Blah blah blah.
> 
> Same claptrap about comments, kudoses, etc. I love when you guys comment on my stuff. It really makes my whole week.
> 
> This chapter, much like the last, was only about half-beta read, so the mistakes are obviously in my half, where ever they end up. My beta reader for this chapter was the lovely and talented ApostateRevolutionary. Give them all your thanks for putting up with my crap and making it better. Without my betas, this would be crap. Or at least, crappier.


	9. Или юродивый, или идиот

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeyyyyyyy.... So, you probably thought that this fic and I were both dead, huh? No such luck. It has been a hell of a complicated 6...7 months for me, but I'm finally getting settled in a place that's right for me. At least for the time being. And that means that it may not be another 6 months before you get the next chapter of this!

The following days passed, the days became weeks, and his life settled into a sort of pattern. Every few days, he'd get woken by Steve and taken to the diner. Some days, they'd chat about one thing or another, usually Steve's stories about the people he’d met; others, they'd simply eat in a comfortable silence. Other days, he'd find himself buckled into the tipped-back seat of James’ truck and they'd shoot dozens, hundreds of arrows until the light faded or the weather soured and they would have to turn back, driving home to the city.

Nat was notably absent in this time, though the other two told him not to worry. She was overseas on business, though exactly what sort, he could never discover. She would be back before too long, everyone seemed to agree.

He realised some time during those weeks as the rain steadily became thin watery sleet that he had an ‘everyone’ now. It was a small ‘everyone’, sure. But he had one. The thought made him smile. It didn't seem to matter anymore to either them or him who they were in that time labelled only as ‘before’. He knew them  _ now _ , each in their own way. They were settling into a shape, a solid form, that he could place in a book,  the little, little book of his memory; that he could paste down onto the page; pin carefully under glass; lay gently between scented tissue and lay in his hopechest. They were real. He had people. He had memories, few though they might be, they were real.

He was real.

***

The day had begun much like the others before it. He drank coffee, he went to the cornerstore and grabbed a sandwich, he walked Lucky to the park, he walked them home, and he took a nap. It was not to end similarly, although he wouldn’t know that for hours yet. In fact, none of his everyone could expect the day to end as it would, although it wouldn’t become clear how things had happened and what had led to the unexpected until much later.

The strangeness of the day began subtly, with nothing more unusual than Clint being woken up from his nap by Lucky jumping off of him and racing to the door. As Clint looked around, he glared and silently cursed the clock, still merrily declaring that it was 00:00 o’clock, and St Baldy McBaldBald was still looking beatific. Yeah, he was running out of rude things to call the saint. So sue him.

The tumbling cascade of red curls falling on his dog’s face made his glare quirk up at the corners into a small smile. “Nat,” he said, trying to hide the surprise in his voice, “Lucky didn’t think you were coming back. I tried to tell him, but he just won’t listen.”

In a move that was by this point near-instinctual, Clint pulled out his phone, opening the app that transcribed speech for him. 

\--Until the doc manages to get your ears fixed, neither can you.  
\--Here.  
\--[swishing sound]  
\--Put this on.

Clint looked up to see the garment bag laying across the back of his sofa. The floral print monstrosity and he had come to an understanding. He didn’t insult it too much, it wouldn’t stab him in the ass with too many springs. It was a delicate armistice, but seemed to be holding.

“What’s this?”

\--A ballgown.  
\--You’re going to be the prettiest princess and your prince is going to come along and whisk you off your feet before your wicked stepsisters can steal your fur slipper and your carriage can turn back into a pumpkin.

“Don’t you mean a glass slipper?” Clint raised his eyebrow at her. Her eyes rolled as she replied.

\--No, the slipper was fur originally then got mistranslated.  
\--Do you want to put the damned thing on, or do I have to dress you myself?

Clint frowned, “Wait, were we…?” he asked, unsure he wanted to know the answer.

\--[hideous retching sounds]  
\-- Я предпочел бы встречаться с песчанки.  
\--You’re family, Clint; not a partner.

Clint nodded, the crease between his eyebrows deepening in thought, “Well if you weren’t, then was there anyone? Or…. Anything?”

Nat looked at him for a long moment, her face impassive, before replying.

\--You’ve got people to support you, Clint.  
\--Why don’t you leave the rest for once you remember who you are?  
\--Besides, you have to get your dress on or we’ll be late.

And so, Clint nodded, pushing the thought that had been weighing down on him lately to the back of his mind. For all the people he had found, all three of them, it seemed like there was someone missing. Something missing, maybe? ‘It’s always harder to tell a lack of something than it is the reverse.’ That’s what Steve said when Clint brought up his suspicions. ‘But once you find the thing you’re missing, you’ll know without question.’ Perhaps he was right.

With a groan, Clint sat up, pulling the heavy garment bag off the back of the couch so he could lay it on his lap and open it. It wasn’t a ballgown.

***

Nat had hired a driver, apparently. The man was tall, had black hair and a truly horrific...beard...thing, and was oddly familiar, though Clint couldn’t place where he’d seen him before. He drove like a maniac, but managed not to hit anything along the way.

When they finally stopped, Nat looked to Clint and adjusted his tie. She’d helped him tie it in the apartment after he’d managed to turn the violet silk into a tangled blob. As she did so, she had spoken, chastising him with a pointed frown when he’d tried to look down to see his phone. He had waited to try again until she’d finished tying the tie.

\--One of my friends is going to be coming with us.  
\--The rest of them we’ll meet when we’re there.  
\--That’s okay?  
\--We’ll pick him up on the way.

Clint had shrugged, unsure what to say. He wasn’t thrilled about a new person or several meeting him, but like Buck and Nat and Steve all said, he had to start jumping back into the world at some point, even if he didn’t remember the way.

And so, when they pulled up in front of a small apartment block and a short bespectacled man let himself in the front seat. As they pulled away, Clint’s phone turned to buzzing almost incessantly in his hand.

\--Tony, Nat, Clint, good to see you all.  
\--Good to see you too.  
\--Wait, are you seriously driving manually, Tony?  
\--I’m a great driver, I’ll have you know.  
\--We haven’t even got to a main road and I’m already afraid for my life.  
\--Oh shut up, you’re just jealous because the JGG isn’t allowed to drive.  
\--JGG?  
\--Jolly Green Giant.  
\--Duh.  
\--Oh, of course, how could I not get that immediately.

It was around here that Clint shut off his phone, slipping it back into the pocket of his suit. He didn’t know these people, or at least, no one but Nat. Better to just live in his own world a little longer than to bother trying to sort out all that they were talking about.

The city outside the window of the car was a dull grey. The sky above hadn’t yet opened, but the clouds looked heavy and pregnant with a coming storm. The forecast this morning on his phone had called for snow later. The first snow of the season, they said. A small shiver ran down Clint’s spine as the fingers of the turning season’s chill reached through the car door.

***

They stopped at a luxurious and columned building downtown. The façade was lit up like some sort of gala and everyone was dressed in their finery, all the men in suits and the occasional tuxedo, the women in gowns in a myriad colours and many sparkling merrily in the light pouring out through the glass doors of the building.

The driver, Tony presumably, handed the keys to the car to the valet, spending what must have been three or four minutes chastising the young woman about the car. People all around them looked and whispered to one another, and Clint felt suddenly uncomfortable. Surely they were just...no, there was no sense fooling himself about it. They were whispering about their small group.

Nat put her arm through Clint’s, the sudden touch drawing him out of his thoughts. With her other hand, she signed fluidly to him, “ _ come on, we’ll take our seats now. the rest of them are sitting in tony’s box, so it’s just us together. _ ”

Clint nodded, letting himself be led through the people by the pale-blue swish of Nat’s gown.

The sign above the doors declared in yard-high letters “ **PETRUSHKA - A RUSSIAN FANTASY** ” and then below in a smaller, less ornate script, “ **One-Night Presentation of the St Petersburg Ballet Company** ”.

***

Nat lead him through a long series of back corridors until finally they came out into a small entranceway onto the stage. She pulled him so they stood out of the way against the wall as the orchestra and dancers filed past, the dancers going up a small stairway to the main stage, the orchestra hidden just underneath the stage only a few feet from where Nat and Clint stood.

He leant over and whispered to her, “Are you sure we’re supposed to be here? This seems…” He was cut off by a silent, not unkind stare from her. “...Ah...we’re going to be here. But we can barely see the stage?” He was answered only by her continued stare.

After a few minutes, a stagehand came over with two small folding chairs, setting them down as quietly as he could on the wooden floor of the stage, just behind the curtain at the edge of the orchestra pit.

Nat sat down delicately and Clint followed suit, still looking at her confusedly. If he leant slightly, he could see past the curtain up to a large private box where Steve, Tony, and a number of other people all sat. Steve noticed him looking and waved. Bucky wasn’t to be seen.

Nat tapped his shoulder and pointed to his shoes, “ _ take those off. socks too. put your feet directly on the wood floor. _ ”

Clint took off his shoes, then his socks, then, with a moment of slight hesitation, put his feet gingerly on the floor. He frowned. He couldn’t hear, that wasn’t the right word for it. He could feel the orchestra through his feet. They were warming up. The drums and pianos were the most obvious, but by watching the players as he pressed his feet more firmly to the floor, he found he could make out the brass, the low strings. Other sounds he could feel pressing through the air. The blast of trumpets, the high trilling of violins and flutes, even the occasional inchoate blare of a cymbal crashing or a gong roaring. He couldn’t put the sensations together into music, not in any coherent way, but the effect was still thrilling. And then they stopped.

Clint turned to Nat and she merely pointed up above them to the main stage where the dancers were getting themselves arranged, milling about at some sort of carnival or fair. And then the music began. Not the random scales and passages playing against one another of the warmup, but real music.

As Clint watched, the ballet began, and he felt his mouth fall slightly open. He, Clint Barton, was watching and hearing...hearing? Perhaps there was a better word? No, perhaps there wasn’t. He was hearing a ballet. And it was thrilling.

***

He didn’t catch a lot of the plot, focussed as he was on the orchestra before him, but he understood enough. It was about a puppet who fell in love at the fair. Just a puppet on strings, fighting for love and honour.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Nat staring intently at the dancers, her gaze one not of amazement, but practiced critique. He tapped her shoulder to get her attention and signed, “ _ you were a dancer. _ ”

She smiled, a wistful melancholy air about that small smile, “ _ perhaps I still am? _ ”

Clint shook his head, “ _ you still dance. you aren’t a dancer, or you wouldn’t look so sad. _ ”

Nat shrugged, motioning back to the stage and the orchestra. The next piece was beginning.

A puppet, a little jester on strings, fighting against the ones holding his strings. In the end, who is the puppet and who the puppeteer? The ballet ended with an eerie appearance of the ghost of the puppet. And at last, the little marionette, funny man on strings, he got his revenge. But was he ever the puppet after all?

***

Clint declined Nat’s invitation to join her and her friends for drinks after the show. As they had been driven home, Nat told him about her time dancing. She had been a ballerina in Russia as a young girl, but along the way she’d ended up simply doing other things. As she signed to him, the words flowing evenly through her hands, she had a far away look on her face that made Clint’s insides twist uncomfortably.

He recognised the feeling by now. It was the feeling of a memory itching its way out of the depths of his brain, pressing without fully rising to awareness.

***

That night, as Clint lay his head down to sleep, the first small flakes of snow fell coldly on the ground. The apartment was silent except for his own rhythmic breathing and the quiet padding footsteps as Lucky went and lay down in the bedroom. The apartment had a chill to it that made Clint pull the thick woolly blanket closer around himself. A quiet breeze dusted the floor with the occasional flake of snow slipped in through the window, left open unnoticed by anyone.

And that night, Clint dreamt long and full. Instead of the shattered images of before, his past sprawled before him like a vast quilt, a flowing, moving pattern of cause and effect, of event and consequence, moving him inexorably away from the Then toward the Now. He didn’t experience his whole life, no, there wasn’t the time even in the strange timeless world of dreams to do that. Instead, he saw who he had been on one day, high above the coastal waters.

He watched in his dream as the sky-fortress, the sugared palace in the clouds become a huge airborne carrier, a mobile command station for a group of heroes. He watched the ants crawling over the hulking ship’s surface solidifying into agents, soldiers, crewmen, many falling to their deaths, many wishing they had fallen. He saw the beast, green and full of rage, becoming familiar not as a fairytale creature, but as a small man lost in his own anger, a hero of a sort, and a brilliant man lost to the demons we all have within us.

And he saw too the monster deep within, trapped in the crystal cage. And the monster became a person; became a puppeteer watching his marionettes dance on their strings. The blue amber sky broke, shattered, and with a start, Clint awoke. He remembered now.

*****

It wasn’t more than a few hours since Steve had left Nat and Clint to go back to the small Russified apartment, and Steve was surprised to see a text come in from her, quickly followed by more in a rapid string.

Natasha: come to the apt now  
Natasha: leave tony etc behind if theyre still with you  
Natasha: suit up

***

Nat was there to meet Steve when he pulled to a noisy stop in front of the apartment building. As he hopped off the back of his bike, he asked in an even rapid tone “What’s wrong? Is anyone hurt? Are you–”

He was cut off without an answer when she pulled him close. She was...hugging him. It was a tight, rib-crushing hug that squeezed the breath from his lungs, and she buried her face in the star emblazoned across the front of his suit. After a long minute, she pulled back. Her face slackened, the anxious, worried expression settling back into the stoic unfazeable one that looked so natural on her. She wasn’t usually the one to take lead, but if this...was it a mission? He supposed it must be. She had done well. No, she’d done right by Clint. That was the point of this, after all.

As they walked up the stairs to the apartment, Steve turned to ask her again for details, but stopped when he saw her shake her head slowly. “It’ll be easier when we’re there.”

***

The apartment looked much like it had that morning when Clint had left to get a sandwich or to walk Lucky. It was Lucky who greeted them when they came into the apartment, wiggling and whining anxiously in a way that Steve knew meant trouble. But what sort? He quickly examined the situation, unstrapping the shield from his back and holding it loosely at the ready.

Nat shook her head. “You won’t need that. No one’s here,” she said softly. Too softly. He’d never seen the steadfast unshakeable Natasha quite this...anxious. It didn’t help his own rising bile of anxiety.

“Okay, then what’s the–” he stopped when her words hit him and he immediately started looking around.

It was subtle. One wouldn’t expect less from a trained agent. But it was there. Things out of place, missing, just not quite how they should be.

Clint’s phone was on the table, but it was off and the battery was sitting lined up neatly next to it. Some of the changes of clothes that Clint usually kept in a disorderly stack by the bookcase were missing. Not all of them, but just enough to get by without being obvious. And the pot of coffee, perennially half-full of cold or cooling coffee was rinsed clean and put back neatly next to the coffee maker, next to the bag of Lucky’s dog food.

And on the table in a novel Clint had picked up a few days ago from the Russian market down the road, was a single underlined phrase, translated in Clint’s rough scrawl in the margin.

“Или юродивый, или идиот ; только один из них благословенна.”

“ _ The fool or the idiot; only one is blessed. _ ”

***

James’ phone rang on the bed next to him and he reached out a hand to where it lay and picked it up. “What?”

Nat’s voice came through the other end. “You need to come back home now.” She sounded worried.

He sat up quickly in his dark hotel room. “Why? What’s the matter?” He could go back easily of course, it was just a matter of a few hours on a jet back to base, but that would mean leaving his mission and–

“You need to come back. I’ve already sent a jet. Be to the airstrip outside of town in three hours. I’ve already sent in a backup to take your mark and run with it.” She rattled off the instructions with a practiced efficiency he recognised well. He used the same voice, the same tone when he was desperately trying to hold the pieces of his world together.

Then, just before he hung up, she said the words that he dreaded her saying before they left her lips. “It’s about Clint.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blah blah same notes about ASL, Russian, etc.
> 
> Thanks for betaing this go to the lovely and talented AvaKelly. Go check out their stuff. It's really good and sometimes I help by reading it. That's TOTALLY considered help, right? I mean, I don't have to actually suggest anything to be helpful, right? Right??
> 
> Anyway. Like I said, I'm so glad to be back in a place to actually be able to write again. It feels good. And I'm so so sorry to all of you for it taking this long to get back to this. I hope the wait was worth it.
> 
> As always, comments etc. are always appreciated beyond measure. Thanks!


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